


Ghosting

by FromFanToStan



Category: One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Feels, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/M, M/M, Near Future, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-08-24 21:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16648064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromFanToStan/pseuds/FromFanToStan
Summary: As Harry prepares for his first public performance of "Two Ghosts," he remembers how and why Zayn left One Direction. There's maybe nothing worse than figuring out how you feel once it's too late. Or is it?





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. This is a work of fiction, populated by characters who share a name with real people who were in a band that existed for a brief shining moment. I'm reasonably sure none of the past events described here ever happened. As for the future, we can only hope that the real people we love find all the happiness they deserve.

“Ok, Haz, I’m going to take my seat. You’ll be great, ok? Not nervous?” Jeff asked as he rubbed Harry’s shoulders reassuringly.

“Me, nervous? I haven’t been nervous in years, Jeff. You know that. Go on then, and see you after, yeah? Come back and have a drink with me.”

Jeff nodded as he opened the door and, as the last well wisher, left Harry alone.

Harry sat on the dressing room bench, staring at his reflection under the harsh lights. Lou had done his makeup beautifully, hiding a late-breaking attack of spots. How was it that he was 23 years old and still getting pimples? 

He shook his head at his reflection. Well. He’d always been considered hot, even when he was too young for anyone by rights to look at him in that way, so if he lost his looks maybe he’d have to rely on the charm that had always been like his dimples, just there and ready to be utilized as needed. 

He could hear his mum in his head, saying, “Now listen to me, young man, you’ve been blessed with looks and charm. Those are gifts--do you know what a gift is, Harry? It’s something you were given. You didn’t work for it. So now you have to work for the important things in life, which are goodness and kindness and generosity.”

He’d tried. He never knew quite where the line was between being true to himself and being kind, but he tried to find it. He tried to be grateful and humble and good, even when he was at his sluttiest in those first years of 1D. God. 

He could never say this out loud to anyone outside the intimate circle of the band, but what a way to spend your late teens and early twenties! Girls throwing themselves at you, boys too. Being able to just give a look, and on they came. He was a slut for a couple of years there, a real slag. He thought privately that he had been cuter then than he was now, but he could still pull anytime he liked. He still got numbers slipped into his pocket or placed with a meaningful squeeze directly into his hand. He got rubbed on dance floors, kissed without permission by fans in the streets, propositioned by male celebrities he didn’t know liked boys and female celebrities who really ought to be home shagging their husbands.

The bigger truth was he thought it was a bit silly how people treated him. It started when he was a little kid and had big green eyes and dimples. “What a little angel!” the ladies at the shops would coo. In the meantime, he’d be stealing candy bars. His teachers always loved him. Little girls would share their lunches. Boys were mean, though. He’d always been sensitive and easily hurt; that’s what being around girls at home would do for you. It wasn’t until all the boys started getting interested in girls that the ones in his form decided Harry was alright. They wanted his leftovers. Harry laughed at himself. What a problem to have.

That was the real luck--being at the height of your attractiveness at exactly the moment the maximum number of people were going to be finding you attractive. He had fucked his way across six continents, and he couldn’t be sorry for it. It wore him out finally. 

Well, and falling in love. That had damaged his game quite a lot.

Still, pink was the only rock color, and he could rock it. The pink satin suit he wore was custom fitted and looked better on him than anything he’d ever had in the 1D days: new suit, new you. Isn’t that what “they” said?

The short hair wasn’t bad either. The last time he had hair this short he was a pre-teen, but it made him look young and fresh. It emphasized his hairline, though. Harry's habit of pulling his hair back probably didn't help anything. He was a stylist's nightmare, always puling on himself somewhere in all his nervous energy. Anyway, he’d accepted that he was going to lose his hair, more or less, just as he’d accepted management telling him and Louis they needed to dial back their obvious infatuation with each other. Just as he’d watched Liam become infatuated with Zayn. Just as he had accepted Zayn’s going. He’d accepted all of it, because what else could he do?

He started to rub his sweaty palms on his pants and stopped himself just in time; satin was unforgiving of moisture. Instead, he grabbed a towel from the dressing table and wiped his hands down. No need to be nervous. He had rehearsed these songs over and over. He knew them well. He also knew he would have listeners beyond the live audience. He hoped one person in particular would be listening, no matter what he had said in the press.

* * *

After weeks of silence, he and Zayn had spoken after “I Won’t Mind” was leaked. Harry hadn’t wanted to, had been afraid of it, but Zayn had texted him three times, and he wanted so much by then to release the anger that he had carried around with him like the twin that he had absorbed in the womb, leaving only vestigial nipples behind as evidence. He hadn’t forgiven Zayn for leaving when he did--they weren’t as close as they once were at the time, but they had had… something pretty spectacular, Harry told himself. He never understood why Zayn had been so distant for so long. He was surprised by Zayn’s voice on the phone when he called, that instead of sounding soft and apologetic he sounded bitter. 

“I don’t want you to think that I wrote that song for you, Harry. Ok, you might have inspired it, but it was just a feeling that passed. I remember everything that happened, and I know the real you.”

Harry knew what Zayn meant by that. Still, though, really he had never had anything but Zayn’s best interests at heart.

* * *

They both had gotten tired of pulling groupies--it was awkward having to have them sign an NDA before they could come up to their rooms, and then there were drinks and small talk to be had. About the time that it was reasonable to move toward the bed, the adrenaline rush from performing would be wearing off, and most nights it was all Harry could do to make sure he and the girl of the night got off and then that she got out without feeling like he had rushed her or been in it only for the sex, which of course had been the whole fucking point. Performing always aroused him, but being young only took him so far into the night.

Zayn was beautiful anyway; there was that too. He still remembered the first time he really looked at him, hard. They had been sitting next to each other at an early X Factor interview when he really looked at him, noticing that Zayn’s skin was perfect, revealing no sign he had ever had a pimple in his life. Harry felt envious of his perfect skin, not to mention that his eyelashes were longer and thicker than any girl Harry had ever seen. After he started looking, it was hard to stop. He kept on sneaking surreptitious glances whenever he thought no one was looking. Zayn caught him sometimes and gave him knowing stares that made Harry blush. Then Louis happened, and that had been distracting and fun until the Powers That Be put a stop to it. Harry knew that if he had really wanted to he could have defied them, but honestly by that point Louis was taking it a bit too seriously. Harry was too young and too flush with his desirability to want to be serious.

Well before the unpleasantness at the end, he and Zayn had moved past sharing rooms and pulling girls together, but Harry remembered when that was what they did. It helped him stay hard when exhaustion hit to know that Zayn was right there, that he could hear him, could hear his girl, that he might be watching him. Sometimes he would look, too, would see Zayn’s eyes closed and his head flung back, exposing his long, lovely throat, while the girl of the night, the Brianna or Jennifer or Kayla, sucked him off. One night Harry had stopped what he was doing to watch. 

Zayn’s girl that night was even hotter than usual, with high, round tits and an ass to match, and she really knew what she was doing, Harry thought. Most of the girls they brought to their room were too young to know much, just legal and eager to learn from fit boy banders. This girl was different. As Harry watched, she played with herself with one hand while holding Zayn’s thick cock at the base and sucking him down all the way to where her hand rested and then back up again to twirl her tongue around the head. Zayn was usually pretty quiet during sex, but this night he was moaning. 

Harry found it erotic, so much so that he wanted to join them instead of staying on his own bed with a girl who had suddenly become much less interesting.

“Hey!” his girl complained, “What about me?” Reluctantly he returned to his duties with her, but after that when Zayn would ask him if he wanted to go out to pull, he would say, nah, why don’t we just stay here?

Eventually it was going to happen. Harry knew it; Zayn must have known it too. They were young and coming off a high every time they walked into a hotel room. Harry was the initiator as usual.

It had been a great show, with fans whose dedication had moved even Zayn. So many signs. There were even a few that mentioned Harry and Zayn by their ship name Zarry. Harry and Zayn saw one at the same time: ZARRY IS REAL. Harry grinned at Zayn before stalking over to where he stood next to Liam. He thrust his groin into Zayn’s, laughing as though it was a joke.

He felt Zayn’s cock immediately thicken slightly. He knew his eyes widened; he hoped Zayn knew it was with delight. He mouthed, “Later” at Zayn, who nodded back at him.

The rest of the show passed in a state in a state of erotic anticipation. Harry was so ready for this. It surprised him just how ready. 

That night and the first few times after they just rubbed each other off, and that was a lot for Harry, because his admiration for Zayn’s beauty approached hero worship. But then one night Harry, ever the adventurer, asked Zayn if he could do to him what the girls did.

He remembered Zayn’s already wide eyes got wider and then narrowed.

“What are you offering? Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?” They grinned at each other at the reference to _The Graduate_ , a movie Harry had made Zayn watch just a few nights before. And somehow the joke about the movie made Harry's offer into a joke, and he found himself demurring, “Ha ha, yeah, like I’d touch that thing with my mouth. I know where it’s been.” The moment passed...for the moment. And nights passed with hands on cocks, roughly, sometimes barely inside the hotel room.

But Harry had spent his whole life charming people into doing things they didn’t think they wanted to do, and he was patient. He waited another week before asking again: “Z, your dick is looking especially inviting tonight. Want me to lick on it a bit for ya?”

“You _are_ trying to seduce me, Harry! I knew it. Get down there then. Show me what you’ve got.”

Harry grinned cheekily at Zayn. He had him, he knew. Zayn was slow to try anything new, preferring the familiar and the routine, finding in it a bit of calm in the midst of the chaos of their lives. Whenever they tried something new, like when they had gone from just jacking off at the same time to jacking each other off, Zayn seemed to get anxious.

It had been a bit of a hard sell to get him to let Harry’s mouth near his dick, but once he had some of that, he would want more. Harry knew that Zayn’s love of getting off would win in the end. 

For months after, Zayn was always clambering over to Harry’s bed with his hard ons, wanting Harry to”help me out, H. I’m so horny tonight. I keep looking at your mouth and thinking about fucking it.” Harry, ever the pleaser, was happy to oblige.

Harry knew quite well that Zayn loved his mouth. He had learned to deep throat and to let Zayn fuck into it while he used his tongue and suction to force groans out of the normally quiet boy. Zayn didn’t always reciprocate with more than a hand job, but Harry loved giving Zayn blow jobs. They got him hot enough that a few good pulls and Harry would be spilling over Zayn’s hand, his vision whited out. For a while he had an erotic obsession with Zayn that threatened, to Harry's way of thinking at least, to become a problem. Zayn was so pretty that Harry liked looking at him a lot, and then Zayn was so slow to allow Harry to do things to him that Harry was driven almost mad with desire to get to it. It could have been a problem had Harry not learned to see his sexual adventures with Zayn as a hunt.

First he got his all access pass to Zayn Malik’s cock. Then it became Harry’s mission to get Zayn’s mouth on his dick. He wanted Zayn’s long eyelashes to rub lightly his belly as he made his way slowly down to the shaft of his dick. He wanted to watch Zayn's pretty mouth make his cock disappear. Oh, Harry had fully developed fantasies about Zayn’s mouth that took weeks of patient persuasion to realize. Eventually, though, Zayn turned out to be an enthusiastic cocksucker. Patience. Charm. Humor. Pity. Zayn wasn’t difficult if you knew what worked with him.

Harry had been debating with himself about whether or not he should go slow with the next step or just go for it. The problem was that Harry had run out of patience before he even started a real persuasive campaign. Zayn’s little bum was so tiny but so round inside the jeans that never fit him that Harry was obsessed with seeing what it could take, what Zayn could take of the cock Harry was justifiably proud of. Usually he would be first to do the thing then talk Zayn into doing it by enthusing about how good it was, but this time he just wanted to plant Zayn on his stomach with that sweet ass up in the air. He thought about it a lot on stage. It was a miracle really that he managed to keep from getting erections every time he looked Zayn's way. The skinny jeans helped.

Harry never did fuck him, never got close actually, because Harry found out that Zayn caught feels. Not for him, though. For Liam.

* * *

Harry loved his friends. He would do literally anything for Ben, had agreed to the producer title to get Ben’s show green lit, had babysat his children at a moment’s notice when he was in town, would always have him listed as a producer on any of his projects so that Ben got a cut. He would never forget the way Ben and Meredith had taken him in and let him stay and stay and stay. He kicked himself out finally. Cara had covered for him numerous times when he was fucking a boy, had kept his and Kendall’s secrets, let him rant at her when the hurt of Zayn’s betrayal was so fresh it felt like a physical wound. She had a key to his place in California and knew she didn’t have to knock.

Lovers were different. Maybe there he was more like the old Groucho Marx maxim and wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have him as a member. Or maybe it was that lovers always wanted more. Harry liked being carefree. He liked to take off on a whim and come back when he got bored. Lovers had demands, and Harry didn’t like those much. If he offered then yeah, he liked being generous and surprising his friends with expensive gifts or Easter Eggs in his music videos or trips to Crete. Friends were always so grateful for his gestures. He found lovers too demanding. 

This had always been the case, and so he told himself, from the beginning of the thing with Zayn, that he was grateful to keep it about sex. Sometime during the time they had been hottest and heaviest, he had noticed that Zayn and Liam were being more affectionate with each other than usual and had thought idly that Liam seemed to have a crush on Zayn. Who wouldn’t, though? 

Fortunately for Harry, sex with Zayn every night acted as sort of a vaccine against feelings except for lust of course. The lust was so strong that sometimes he and Zayn would barely make it into the room before they were tearing at each other’s clothes, clutching each other with enough force to leave bruises, biting into each other’s hips and anywhere else it wouldn’t show.

So when one night instead of grabbing at Harry as soon as the hotel room door closed, Zayn had turned to him with a serious look. “Haz, I need to talk to you,” Harry's heart sank.

This moment came in every sexual relationship he had ever had. His partner always wanted more, and Harry couldn’t give it. Zayn was the prettiest and sexiest lover he’d ever had, and he was his mate too, someone who made him laugh and who laughed at his jokes, someone he could say anything to, and the sex was fantastic, but no. No. Harry did not want anything more.

“Z, I’m going to stop you before you say something stupid. I love our nights, like, so much. I love your body and your pretty face and the way you kiss and getting to feel your dick against mine, getting to put my mouth on you. I think about it a lot. But it’s just the sex is really really good, and it's easy to think when it's really good like this that it might mean something more. But it can't. We’re mates, Z. We’ll always be mates, but this will eventually stop being so good, and then…” Harry shrugged. “We want to be able to be mates after, right?”

Harry was warming to his topic and ready to launch into an homage to friendship and how much better it was than anything else, but before he could start the next verse, Zayn stopped him. 

He scrutinized Harry briefly. “It’s not you, Haz. It’s Liam. That’s what I needed to tell you.”

Harry still remembered the electric shock of hearing what he instantly knew to be true, assigning meaning to all the times he had interrupted Zayn and Liam draped across each other, all the times on stage when Zayn had been at least as affectionate with Liam as he’d ever been with Harry, all the times he’d shouted, “Love you!” to Liam’s departing back down the hotel hallway or the airport escalator as Liam scarpered off somewhere. 

“What are you saying, Z. Are you in love with him?”

“I don’t know, Haz. I know that I feel really great around him and that he loves me. He told me a few days ago, that night you were too tired to do anything and I went down to his room because I wasn’t tired at all for once. He said he couldn’t watch us any longer without saying something, that I deserved better than what I was getting from you.”

“Hey--!”

“You know he’s right. The sex has been amazing, the best of my life. You’ve made me get how much I like being with other men, how maybe I’m sort of gay. Or, why am I still talking shit? I am gay, probably. And I want to have a relationship. Liam’s offered, and I said yes.”

If Harry had been a better person, less selfish behind his facade, if he had truly had Zayn’s best interests at heart, he would have left it there. Liam _was_ a better person than Harry, more reliable, more serious, more sincere, less easily distracted, more noble. All of it. Zayn looked so relaxed now. He had never been relaxed with Harry.

But Harry wasn't a better person. Just ask him now that some time had passed how he had justified himself to himself. He thought he was better for Zayn, but he knew also then that he was alone in that opinion and should keep it to himself.

It was hard to tolerate, watching them. Liam and Zayn were whispering to each other on and off stage, putting their hands in each other’s back pockets, giving each other big grins that made Harry feel sick. He watched nightly as Zayn disappeared down the hall toward Liam’s room at every hotel, observing the lightness and quickness of his step, observing silently from behind his slightly-cracked door. At first he suspected and then he came to accept as true that Zayn was happy.

Harry tried; he really did. Outwardly he appeared as calm as ever. Onstage he looked like he was having fun. He still draped himself over all the boys except Louis. He patted Zayn’s pretty little arse, poked Liam’s belly, kissed Niall on the cheek. He tried to let Zayn know he still wanted him without giving offense. If Zayn gave him a warning look, he shrugged as if to say, “What? You’re hot! I can’t help it.”

No one knew. He was sure of it, especially when Liam cornered him after a show.

“Haz, I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Liam said, wearing his most earnest expression.

Again Harry exercised his near-total self control. “Yeah, Li, what’s up?”

“Um, Zayn said that he had talked to you….”

Harry stopped him, unable to endure the naming of the thing that he could not, he understood vaguely, reasonably endure. “He did. It’s totally cool, man. Don’t worry about a thing.”

His stomach churned at the look of relief on Liam’s face. “Hey, I’ve scheduled a call…” Harry pointed toward his own door.

“Oh! Of course, great, yeah, then, everything’s cool?”

“Of course it is. Zayn and me, we were just messing around. It was always temporary.” Even as the words left his mouth, Harry felt the lie seep down his throat and spread like a cancer through his blood. It wasn’t. Nothing he had said was true.

Liam went off happily, because Liam was not subtle, Harry thought bitterly. He accepted everything at face value. How could Zayn love him and not be bored to death? Harry would never bore Zayn, never had done. It was always exciting to be around Harry. He was a bird in flight, while Liam was a plodder, dependable and dull.

It was this idea, that Zayn was somehow settling, that he couldn’t possibly be happy with anyone like Liam, even if he seemed to be, that began to insinuate itself into Harry’s thinking. At first it was a passing thought. Over the weeks, though, it came to seem like truth, as though he were really letting Zayn down to just allow this ridiculous ‘relationship’ to continue.

In his mind, Harry had begun to place quotes around ‘relationship,’ because surely Zayn could never really feel anything for Liam, he had been hurt because Harry had been so casual, so clearly a fuck buddy, seemingly so interested in just hot sex. Really, Harry told himself, he would be doing Zayn a favor to intervene. It would be the right thing to do. Besides, Harry could never resist a hunt.

The thing was, Zayn was rarely alone anymore. Onstage he stayed near Liam or was laughing with Louis, who seemed to be his new best friend. Offstage he was with Liam constantly. Harry watched and waited. He thought of little else other than getting Zayn alone, so that he could reason with him, explain to him why he should come back to Harry. They had been happy too. Alone in his room, he watched fan videos from the past on his laptop. He saw how he and Zayn looked together, how they were drawn to each other. There was something….what was the word? Inevitable. There was no way the sex was as good with Liam. And what else was there, at their age?

So Harry watched and waited, because he could be patient when patience was called for. He continued to touch Zayn onstage. He gave him meaningful glances just often enough but not too often. He knew that there would come a night when Liam needed to meet with management, because he was their unofficial spokesman and the most business-minded of the five of them by far. Zayn had never been joined at the hip with anyone before. He would want alone time, and Harry would be ready.

Of course, it was _inevitable_

_that the time came, because Fate has a way of making paths where we want to go anyway. A night came when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul asking Liam to stick around, take a call from Modest, solve some problem that bored Harry without even knowing what it was. He saw Liam raise an eyebrow at Zayn, saw Zayn shrug and wave him off._

Did Harry question himself at any moment that night? He asked himself that question in the aftermath, when it seemed to him that his unquestioned acceptance of his own goodness had been misplaced. He was afraid that he hadn’t. 

So little did Harry know of Zayn’s schedule anymore that he had to ask Security which room was Zayn’s. It turned out that he was just two doors down from Harry. Their hotel that night was large enough that all their suites were on the same floor. He took a quick, hot shower and afterwards fingered himself open with lube without thinking much about it. He had bottomed before. It had been a while, but his Zayn loved getting off, and this would be new and exciting. Such was Harry's confidence in his own desirability, and why shouldn't he be confident when no one had ever resisted him for long? Not even Zayn Malik, the most beautiful human in the world. 

All the lube and fingering had given him a hard-on that lasted through combing out his tangled hair, putting on deodorant and just the tiniest hint of Tom Ford behind his knees. His erection rubbed deliciously against the gym shorts he put on as his only garment. He knew Zayn loved his body; he should show him as much of what he had been missing as possible.

He slipped out into the hall barefoot and down to Zayn’s door, knocking softly. In seconds Zayn was opening it, suggesting that perhaps, had Harry chosen to think with his brain at that moment, that he had been waiting for Liam to come back.

“Harry--what are you doing here?”

“I just need to talk to you for a minute, Z. Let me in?”

Zayn’s eyes moved down to Harry’s visible erection. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, babe. You seem to have something on your mind besides talking?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about this. You know how I am after a show. It’s just….it’ll go away in a minute. Just let me in. Please.”

It seemed to Harry, looking back, that Zayn had been kidding himself when he opened the door wide and let Harry in. His hair was wet too, and he wore only track pants, slung low, accenting his narrow waist and making Harry salivate. Zayn knew how they were, every bit as much as Harry did.

Harry leaned against the closed door, perhaps unconsciously remembering all the times that he and Zayn had pressed against each other in just this place, too eager even to move toward the bed.

* * *

He started, in his most sincere voice, even if even he didn't know how much he meant what he was saying.

“Zayn, I miss you so much. I’ve been lost without you. I can’t sleep. I only think about you, all the time.” As Harry said it, he began to believe in his own words, that he probably had feelings for Zayn beyond just loving to get off with him. It was almost certainly the case.

“I was thinking, Z, that maybe if we could just get off again one more time, that it would be, like, enough, to get me through the rest of the tour, and then once I’m back in London I can find someone to take my mind off you, help me get over you.” He had been looking into Zayn’s eyes, but now he allowed his eyes to drop and for the real emotion he was starting to feel to bring wetness to his eyes. Harry had always been easily moved to tears.

“I’m with Liam now, Haz. You know I can’t do anything with you.” He could hear hesitation in Zayn’s voice. Harry looked up at him through his lashes, let the tear that hovered in an eye drip down his cheek. It was manipulative, it was, but it was for the right reasons. Liam didn’t deserve Zayn. Perhaps without being fully aware of what he was doing, Zayn moved a few inches closer to Harry, who could now smell his shampoo and natural musk, and his erection, which had flagged slightly, returned.

His lip trembled. “It would help me so much, Z. I can’t think of anything but you. I’m miserable.” It was true. He had been mad with loneliness and jealousy. It was wrong of Zayn to make him feel this way.

He knew Zayn well, Harry did. Zayn wasn’t the only observant one in the band. He wasn’t surprised to feel Zayn’s light hand on his shoulder. “I never meant for you to be hurt, Haz. I never thought you cared, to be honest.”

“I didn’t know I did, Z. I guess I didn’t want to know.” Harry flushed at this. God, he was being blatant. It didn’t matter. Zayn would see his blush as proof of the truth his admission. He wanted more than anything to place his hands at Zayn’s narrow waist, to pull him into his erection, to feel Zayn's tongue in his mouth. He controlled himself once again; he was so good at self control.

He heard Zayn sigh a little and looked up to see the soft look in his eyes. Now. He placed his hands on Zayn’s waist, felt the soft skin and the jut of his bony hip just below. “I want to kiss you,” he said, thinking wildly that if Zayn said no, he would go back to his room, have a wank, try to sleep. 

Zayn didn't say no. He didn't say anything. He and Harry were a chemical reaction, like hydrogen and oxygen, like life itself. Zayn eliminated the distance between them suddenly, tilted his head slightly to press his lips against Harry’s, and then it was too late. Harry felt Zayn’s cock thicken and harden against his thigh. He breathed out between kisses, “I want you to fuck me, Z. Please. We never did, and I want it more than anything.”

“Harry….Haz. Goddammit. What am I supposed to do with you? How am I supposed to resist you?" He breathed into Harry's neck as the words tumbled out, making Harry shiver with anticipation and imminent victory. "I’ve missed you too.”

“Show me,” Harry insisted, pulling his gym shorts over his hips and letting them drop to the floor. He turned toward the door. “Fuck me here, right now.” He spread his legs, arched his back provocatively, offering himself to Zayn's view.

“Nah, babe, come to the bed. I’ll fuck you, alright? And then you have to go back to your room. Liam’s probably going to come down. He’ll text me first, but I’m still with him. I’m….I care about him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“He doesn’t have to know, Z,” Harry breathed in Zayn’s ear. He let his tongue touch Zayn’s earlobe, a particularly sensitive spot. “This is just for you and me. Like a goodbye. Promise, this will be it. I want you so much. Fuck me.”

And Zayn did. He gently pushed Harry backwards to the bed, pulling at his own pants as they moved and tongued at each other. Harry heard his sharp intake of breath when he realized that Harry had prepared for this, when he knew that for Harry at least this wasn’t a spontaneous action. He could have stopped, but Zayn always did love sex, and the sex with Harry was so good. 

Harry positioned himself face down on the bed, face in the pillows, pulled his legs up so that he was on his knees, bum in the air, hole pink and open, waiting. Zayn could have stopped. It took two to fuck, and Harry half expected Zayn to tell Harry to get out. Instead, he felt two long fingers slip into his hole and then a curl that hit his prostate and caused him to cry out. It felt like melting and burning at the same time. Harry wanted more of it. As he pushed himself down and back into Zayn’s fingers, he heard Zayn’s groan. “Harry, oh my god, babe, I’m going to fuck you now. Tell me if I’m hurting you.” Harry heard the rip of the condom wrapper, and then he was truly lost.

If it hurt a bit at first, Harry didn’t care. He felt triumph at being breached, his heart exulted that he still could make Zayn lose control like this. He pushed back against Zayn, wanting him deeper, wanting Zayn’s dick hitting against his prostate exactly as his fingers had, wanting to feel Zayn come. As for himself, before long he was coming untouched as Zayn pulsed inside him, saying his name the way he did as he lost himself in orgasm, the way Harry had forgotten. He might be forgiven if, when he heard the gasp, at first he thought it was Zayn. 

Of course. Harry had known, on some level, that this would happen. He knew that by now Liam would have a key to Zayn’s room and vice versa, just as he and Zayn had done. He knew there was a good chance of being caught. Even now, he didn’t like to remember what Liam had said nor how he had left the room, nor how Zayn had slapped him across the face when he sat up and opened his mouth to say something stupid, like maybe this was for the best.

I’m going to go to Liam now, Harry. Maybe if I’m lucky he’ll forgive me. I’ll never forgive you, though. You knew, you bastard. You counted on all of this.”

With that, Zayn left the room, and a few months later he left the band. Harry thought he wouldn’t mind. It had been so uncomfortable being around him and Liam, knowing finally, now that it didn’t matter, maybe because it didn’t matter, that he had fallen in love with Zayn and that he had fucked things up for him. It was every kind of fucked up, because Harry missed him. He tried not to think about Liam or about that last night, instead losing himself in memories of a past that seemed perfect now.

He missed sleeping with Zayn and whispering dirty jokes to him and admiring the fact that the prettiest boy in the world was his for the taking most every night. He missed Zayn patting him on the bum and slinging an arm over him. He missed looking at Zayn when he was flushed and soft from coming. He longed to see him naked and sated, but he knew he wouldn’t, not ever again.

Harry was many things, but foremost among them he was realistic. He had broken Zayn and Liam, and neither would ever be his again. He would ask for a hiatus, and if he had to, to make it happen, he would explain why it was necessary. He knew that he was essential to the band, even more with Zayn gone. Because Harry was Harry, he got the hiatus and time to hate himself in a way that he never had. It really helped his creativity.

* * *

Harry gave himself one last glance in the dressing room mirror. He was about to perform “Two Ghosts” live for the first time, and he needed his self-control back. He gave himself his best smile, willing it to reach his eyes, and then he stood, straightened his shoulders, and left the dressing room with its memories behind.

_We're not who we used to be_

_We don't see what we used to see_

_We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty_

_Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat_

_Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat_

_I'm just trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat_


	2. The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes on tour and reaches out to Zayn. He knows he doesn't deserve to be forgiven, but he hopes Zayn will anyway.

Harry tried to be good. He did. He was on tour in support of his first solo album, and he accepted every bouquet, stopped for selfies until Security drug him away, teased the audience of still mostly young women, strutted back and forth using every inch of available space on the stage. He flirted. He was so much more flirtatious on stage than in real life. If people only knew they would wonder what he did with the _real_ Harry Styles. 

He gave a good show, night after night, more than he had to, more than even he had ever before, because now it was just him. One Direction was like a corporation. Sure, he might have gone down, but if he did four others went with him, along with a cast of hundreds. Now he was more of a sole proprietorship, with a few employees. If he went down, he went alone and with no one to blame but himself.

His songs were his; the meanings were his, understood by him and maybe by the person they were written for. It meant that on a normal night he got tears in his eyes at least once, even though he always tried to hide it. It meant there were few distractions from missing Zayn and from feeling things.

He started out in small venues. No one but Zayn ever got that he was not his persona, that he got nervous, feared failure, wasn’t as secure in his looks or sexuality as he liked to seem. They mistook his apparent fearlessness, his lack of inhibitions, the way he seemed to throw himself at life, as confidence. Zayn was the only one who saw that he was compensating.

He wanted to use his sexuality, did use it, and then--made fun of himself using it. The small venues were easier. He didn’t know if his personality alone was big enough to fill an arena. He gradually settled more into performing as a true frontman, but he missed being part of something larger, and he missed having somewhere to direct his sexual energy on stage. After shows, in hotel rooms alone, he watched Zayn’s videos, especially his acoustic version of “I Don’t Want to Live Forever.” He wondered if Zayn had been performing it for him, or for Liam, or for Gigi. He had uploaded it so close to Harry’s birthday last year.

The venues got larger, and there were more people backstage pre and post concert. Harry thought of Zayn and didn’t pull, turned down invitations both blatant and subtle with a grin and a “sorry, love, exhausted.” He preferred to go back to his room and watch Zayn anonymously, headphones on. He loved the covers, listened to “Me, Myself, and I” during the hopeful time when Zayn and Gigi seemed to have been broken up. He imagined that Zayn was over them all, but Harry wasn’t. Zayn was that sore tooth he couldn’t leave alone. He held out as long as he could, which, being Harry, was not that long.

Because he was good, or trying to be good, he called Liam first. He tried to control the desperation in his voice, tried to make it sound like Liam’s opinion would matter. “Li, I”m sorry it’s been so long. How are you? How’s Bear?”

“Harry. It’s good to hear your voice. I’m good; Bear is good. I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like, of course. But he’s good. He’s going to be two soon, can you believe it?”

“That’s amazing! Will you have a party for him at yours? You should invite me so he can get to know his Uncle Harry. Promise me you will. But, the thing is, Liam, I’m calling about Zayn. Do you talk to him? I’ve spoken to him once since Hong Kong, and all that happened was that he yelled at me. I want to see him. I want to call him at least. Would you be okay with it?”

“Ah Harry, Zayn’s a mess, yeah? I love him, and yeah, I thought I was in love with him. I think we all did at some point or another. But he and I, we were over before he left. It was mutual. He was kind of pining for you and fucking around trying to find you, I think. He’s worse than you, really, because he loves being in relationships but he can’t be faithful. At least you don’t pretend to a relationship and then cheat.” Liam’s voice had turned slightly bitter. Harry heard him sigh, even holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he assembled ingredients for a healthy smoothie.

“So….is it alright if I call him or not? Can’t tell.”

“I don’t think you should, no, but not because of me. Zayn was a one time thing for me, with guys. I’m seeing girls now. Just girls.”

Harry privately doubted this would last, because it never had for him, but ok. He pressed. 

“Liam, if I do call him, and he wants to see me, are you going to be ok with it?”

“It’s your choice, Harry. We’re men now. We make our own decisions. Do what you want.”

Harry hung up the phone after mutual, probably false, assurances to get together soon, turned the blender on, and contemplated again if this was something he really wanted to do. He knew that Liam probably wasn’t ok with him doing it, but he could pretend that he was, take Liam at his word. He wasn’t sure he could stop himself, anyway. Zayn's rejection was a unique event that had burned a hole in him ever since Zayn left.

And anyway it was _Zayn_. Of all the people in the world to be turned down by, why did it have to be Zayn Fucking Malik?

He still had Zayn’s number from 2016 and tried it. It rang but no answer. At least it still rang. He left a voicemail, carefully noncommittal.

“Hey it’s me. if this is even still your number, I’d like to talk. Everybody else has my number in case you don’t but I haven’t changed it lately. Anyway, you can see my number on your phone! So, call me, yeah?”

Days went by. He did several gigs. When he sang “Medicine,” he used gestures more, made it more obvious what he was talking about, at least part of it. He wanted the audience to imagine Harry Styles sucking cock, even if he knew it was also about putting himself at Zayn’s mercy, taking whatever punishment he chose to dole out. He groaned into the mike, throwing his head back, showing his throat, licking his lips and allowing them to part. He hoped Zayn was watching the videos, got off just thinking that he might have been. Got off on the idea of Zayn being in charge of him, giving him what he deserved.

He was in the hotel in the next city, with a day off and, old man of twenty-three that he was, he was using to catch up on sleep, when the phone rang. _Zayn_. 

“‘Lo?”

“Haz, it’s me. I got your message. So, what do you want to talk about?”

Harry wished that he was more awake, saw the glass of water next to the bed and gulped it. What did he want to talk about? He knew Zayn was waiting patiently, knew that Zayn knew it took a bit for Harry to formulate his ideas into words.

Harry decided to go big, as usual. He had always been most successful when he flew without a net.

“Was the acoustic ‘I Don’t Wanna Live Forever’ for me? You uploaded it the day after my birthday. And you posted on Instagram the day before my birthday this year. Was ‘Always on My Mind’ for me too, Zayn?”

He expected Zayn to snap at him or refuse to answer or even laugh at him. He didn’t expect Zayn to clear his throat and admit, “Yeah, I guess. Gigi left me after ‘I Don’t Wanna Live Forever.’ She said she was tired of me singing love songs to someone who didn’t give a shit about me and anyway wasn’t her. She probably only came back that time because it was good for her brand.”

Harry knew he should say sorry about Gigi, especially since they were maybe still broken up again. He always wanted to know everything, but he lost polite Harry somewhere when it came to Zayn and didn't trust himself to ask questions. “And this year? Was it for me? Do you miss me, Z?”

There was a long pause. “You know me, Harry. You always knew what I meant even when I couldn’t say it. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, so of course I think about it. Think about you. Still write songs about you. Miss you, even. I get that I was just as much to blame, but you set a trap for me, didn’t you, Haz? You didn't like me being happy without you.”

Even though that might have been the longest speech he’d ever heard from Zayn, Harry evaded his question, as he liked to do. “Let’s see each other, talk it out a bit. I’m on tour, but I’ll be in New York soon, end of June, like the 21st and 22nd? Could you come to either show?”

There was a brief silence on the line. Zayn was struggling with his answer, Harry knew. He wanted to be good, so he waited. He wasn’t sure what he was offering, nor if Zayn should accept it, but he also knew that Zayn found him hard to resist. He’d said so, hadn’t he?

“Yeah, ok. Put me someplace discreet. Do you have a bunch of people in the VIP boxes?”

“I was waiting. I wanted you to come, so I didn’t invite anyone else to sit in a box.”

“Ok, Haz. The second night works better for me if that's okay.”

“Give me your address and I’ll send you the pass and everything you need to get in. See me after?”

“Yeah, you can come here.”

You don’t want to meet somewhere neutral?”

He heard Zayn’s soft chuckle. “No place we meet will be neutral. Better to be safe from prying eyes. There’s an underground garage. I’ll send you the key codes.”

* * *

Harry thought that knowing he had to wait a few weeks to see Zayn would be agony. Instead, the time was filled with joyful anticipation. He knew his change in mood was visible. Mitch didn’t say anything, but he watched him a lot more, with a half smile on his face. They had gotten drunk together one night in Jamaica, near the end when the camera crews were gone and only band and producers were left, and he had been uncharacteristically revealing. Mitch did that to him. He was so quiet that Harry tended to babble. That night he had babbled about Zayn, and ever since Mitch had been gently nudging him to get in touch.

He didn’t want to babble this time, not to Mitch or to anyone. He wanted to hold this secret to his chest like the newborn it was, like the faltering hope he allowed himself to feel. So instead during shows he skipped all over everywhere, kissing Mitch on the lips and leaned precariously on Clare’s keyboard until she shoved him off. He stayed forever after each show with fans, posing for selfie after selfie after selfie, seemingly never getting tired, pushing Security away so he could keep interacting with the fans. He was sassy onstage, generating gifs and memes that Mitch took to showing him. One had caught him hand on cocked hip, wearing a jumpsuit and a smirk, shaking a finger down at the audience, looking like he used to look when he was making his way onstage to Zayn to be naughty. He looked like he used to look with 1D, he realized. He looked happy.

As soon as Kacey joined the tour, Harry asked her to sing “Still The One” with him on the second night at Madison Square Garden. “Sure, Harry,” Kacey said. “Any particular reason it’s just that one night?"

Harry felt himself blush. God. He was like a little kid waiting for Santa to come. “Yeah, I’ll have a special guest that night, and it’s a special song for us.” Which wasn’t really true, but anyway he didn’t want to go into details. They rehearsed a bit after every show. It helped that they both already knew the song, so it was just getting deciding who led where and getting the harmonies right for the chorus. It was embarrassing how much Harry hoped that Zayn would like it.

The first morning he woke up in New York City, Harry was in his own ridiculously expensive apartment in Tribeca. His assistant had stocked the frig and made sure he had his favorite teas and coffee, and the cleaner had come the day before so that everything smelled clean if not exactly fresh or lived in. It was a luxury to sleep in his own bed, one of his own beds, after so many nights away, even though he famously could sleep just about anywhere. Touring so much for five years had taught him that much. He had asked for solitude that morning, so when he woke up he luxuriated in the master bath’s whirlpool until the water barely remembered warmth and his toes were wrinkled. He promised himself he would not call Zayn. Today.

Doing sound checks at Madison Square Garden brought back memories of course. The only time he had played here was also a sold out show, in 2012. Now he was back, selling out two nights, all on his own. It felt remarkable. He wasn’t sure when he released the album, when the sales had been a bit disappointing although the critical reception had been warm, if he could sell enough tickets for venues this size. So far there had been nothing to worry about.

The tour was going well after all. It turned out he could fill up an arena, he could hold an audience’s attention (and when he didn’t he could make fun of them in a genial way), and his songs sounded great in a big auditorium like this. The fact that he had chosen to keep the lighting and set design fairly simple for the tour meant that the attention stayed on him and on the music, which he very much liked. He thought Zayn would like it too. He wished they could talk about their careers, about how it had been since the end of the band.

As he prepared to have a light early dinner with Jeff and a few friends, his manic energy of the past few weeks left him, and he felt centered, peaceful, and at home. He would put on a great show, and then he would sleep, and then he would text Zayn first thing tomorrow. He couldn’t wait to see him.

When Harry woke up on the third most important day of his life (1. being born 2. being put in the band on X Factor), he grinned like an idiot, alone in his excellent bed. He wished Zayn would come back here tonight. He really had gone to some trouble to make this place comfortable, with soft blue gray walls in the bedrooms, and living area sofas and chairs overstuffed enough to drape across. All the mattresses were excellent, and no one had ever smoked anything indoors. Ah well. He couldn’t have everything, and getting a shot at being with Zayn again was worth a bit of discomfort.

Harry stretched and felt his usual morning erection bumping at the sheet above him. No. Down, boy. He was saving that too. Just in case. He knew that Zayn was seeing him to talk, but they had always had such an attraction to each other. Look how little they were able to resist it in the past.

Harry texted Zayn the specifics on getting into the VIP box, offered to have a car pick him up right as the show was starting, and finished with “can’t wait to see you xx.” He hit send before he could decide if that last line was too bold. If it was too bold, Zayn would let him know. Surely he was still coming.

The ping of an incoming message reassured Harry. He grabbed his phone.

_thanks for deets see you tonite will text mine as i leave show_

Harry couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. He gave himself a few minutes to feel it then turned to the business of the day. Tonight’s suit, a custom Calvin Klein in a color that was neither blue nor green but suited Harry’s coloring perfectly. Hair, washed last night so he’d have a bit of oil but not be greasy. Nerves, growing.

Once on stage, Harry found he couldn’t control either his need to seek out Zayn’s silhouette in the VIP box above nor his own need to smile joyfully. Every song was for Zayn, and when he brought Kacey out he couldn’t help but turn his eyes upward to that box, trusting that Zayn knew every line was for him: 

_You're still the one I run to_  
_The one that I belong to_  
_You're still the one I want for life_

And if some of the lyrics were wish fulfillment, well, Harry couldn’t blame himself. He savored the unique feeling of longing for what he hadn’t been able to have, hoping that it was ending tonight.

The last night at MSG meant a crowd after the show, mostly people he knew but some he didn’t. There were multiple bottles of champagne and many congratulations, but Harry found appearing calm increasingly more difficult. He just wanted to go. He had Zayn’s text with the code for the garage. He had a car on call for whenever he was ready. Now all he had to do was get away from backstage.

He tried a few tiny yawns behind a hand. He subtly switched his body language from “I’m so glad you’re here and you enjoyed the show!” to “Wow? Is it really that late?” Finally, finally, he pulled Jeff aside to say, “I’ve got a date. I’m rather desperate to leave. Help me!”

Within the half hour he was on his way, and fifteen minutes later the driver was punching in the key code to the garage and he was texting Zayn to say “made it coming in garage now will let myself in to bldg with code see you soon.”

He had changed from the CK suit into jeans and his old Pink Floyd tee shirt. Was it even his? Back then he and Zayn had shared clothes, and they both had the same Pink Floyd tee. Was it a good idea to reference the past, or should he focus entirely on the future? He even had on a Chelsea boot. Too late for second thoughts.

He had showered at the venue, had considered using lube and decided that even for him that would be overconfident. If they needed it, he was sure Zayn would have some. He really hoped they would need it.

His palms were as sweaty as the first time he performed “Two Ghosts” in public. In the elevator, ten scenarios flashed through his brain of how Zayn might react to seeing him. Turned out they were all wrong.

He could hear Kendrick Lamar from the door as he waited for Zayn to answer his last text: “at the door.” As the door swung open, he was taken aback by the feeling of being enveloped in a tight hug. Gratefully, he wrapped his arms around Zayn and hung on. It seemed to last for minutes, smelling Zayn, feeling his wiry strength, being just enough taller than he to smell his hair and the faint scent of smoke he always carried. He felt his eyes fill. No. No crying. Not a good start.

Harry gently held Zayn at arm’s length and saw he wore a fond expression.

“Haz. I’m glad to see you. Like, really really glad. You look so good. I really loved your show. It was everything good about the way you were in 1D but, like, very you. Oh, and I like the hair.”

Harry resisted the urge to brush over Zayn’s cheekbones with his thumbs, a private gesture between them that he had never allowed outside their private spaces. He stopped himself from bending slightly to press his lips against Zayn’s, even though Zayn’s looked so good, pink and full and smiling.

“You look pretty as ever, Z. I like your hair too. Only you could rock gray.”

“Hey, this is silver!”

“Yeah, ok,” Harry smiled back at him. This felt okay. Maybe it was going to be okay.

Zayn motioned him inside, and Harry followed him into the room he had seen in so many YouTube videos, noting briefly along the way that his and Zayn’s style in home decor could not be more different. He regretted briefly not finding a way to make Zayn come to his. At least they could sit comfortably, and his asthma wouldn’t be threatening to react to the thin veil of smoke hanging over everything.

“Hey, let’s go up to the roof terrace, yeah? I know you can’t really breathe in the smoke.”

Harry agreed gratefully and followed Zayn up a set of stairs to a surprisingly garden-like terrace. Zayn had clearly was using the space for growing things, and from appearances they were legal too. After they were both seated on comfortable loungers and had exchanged pleasantries, Zayn saying sorry about Robin, Harry saying sorry about Gigi, Zayn saying well, that’s kind of back on in a way, it’s complicated, Harry thought, oh, tonight is not going to go as planned. He knew he better at least get to the first of what he wanted to say.

“Z. I need to say that I didn’t know it at the time, but I did set a trap for you. I was so jealous of you and Liam. I convinced myself you couldn’t be happy with him and that I just needed to talk to you, convince you to see things the right way, you know, my way.” Harry looked down at his fingers, twisting together as they did when he was nervous.

“I wanted you. I missed you. But yeah, on some level I knew we would probably get caught, and I wanted that too. It was a dick move, and I’m sorry for it. I’ve had plenty of time to regret it.” He couldn’t look up and meet Zayn’s gaze properly, but he hoped he sounded sincere. 

“I’m sorry too. Basically every time I do an interview I sound like a bitter asshole. You know I’ve always had a hard time seeing myself as powerful, and it’s been easier to blame you, to blame the band, to blame anything but myself for everything that happened to me. I did everything the wrong way.”

Harry felt such a rush of gratitude that on impulse--god, his impulses would be the life or death of him--he pushed himself off the lounger and knelt beside Zayn, taking both of Zayn’s hands in his.

“Babe, don’t say that. I’ve been so selfish. I want to make it up to you. Will you let me?” Harry moved his hands to grasp Zayn’s shoulders, thinking to lean in and kiss him, if only lightly, if only once. He was only somewhat surprised when Zayn moved his hands away and gave him a small push back.

“Haz, go sit down. We’re talking. Not talking is how we always get in trouble. Let’s just talk, ok?”

The thing was, Zayn looked so beautiful, his hair glowing in the reflected building lights and the solar pathlights placed around the terrace at intervals, his eyes wide and luminous. Harry wanted so badly to take him in his arms. He used every ounce of his self control to do as Zayn asked of him, to return to his own lounger, to take a breath, and to say, “Ok, sorry. Let’s talk. What do you want to say to me?”

It turned out Zayn had plenty he wanted to say. Apparently seeing his own role in the events of the past few years didn’t mean not seeing Harry’s. Harry bit his lower lip hard enough to leave a mark to keep himself from interrupting. It was so hard not to defend himself, so hard to listen and nod. So hard to let Zayn lay out all the reasons he was an asshole, selfish, not a good person, even if he had said as much minutes before. Finally, Zayn paused, seemingly worn out with the words he had held in abeyance for so long.

Harry fought himself. He asked himself the critical question that comes in all lives but that he had never had to ask himself before: would he rather be right, or would he rather be happy? Only one answer was possible. He looked directly into Zayn’s anguished eyes before smiling slightly in acknowledgement. “You’re right about everything, Z. Can I fix it?”

“Babe,” Zayn said softly, “it’s so nice that you’ve asked me that. I guess the answer is that I don’t know right now. I trusted you. I thought that even if you didn’t care about me in the way I cared about you--stop, Haz, don’t say anything--even if you didn’t have, like, romantic feelings for me, you were my friend and wanted what was best for me. All my bitterness really came from finding out that you weren’t my friend, that you didn’t care what I wanted as long as you got what you did.”

Harry couldn’t say anything to that, not really.

“It’s going to take time, not to forgive you but to trust you again. Do you even want to give me that time, Haz?”

“Yeah, of course I do. I can give you whatever you need,” Harry answered. He knew this much. If there was a path to forgiveness, he wanted to be on it.

“Ok, then. This was a good first step. Let’s keep in touch, yeah? Maybe text a few times a week? See how it feels to be talking again?”

Ok. Harry deserved this. He deserved to have to wait and to not know if the waiting had a point. He deserved to be held at arm’s length. He was going to take his medicine like the good boy he wanted to be.

“Yeah, of course. I’d like to be in touch again. You better tell me, though. How many texts a week do I get? Would four be too many? I’m going to have to ration myself, you know.” He showed a dimple, hoping that it would take the neediness away a bit.

Zayn laughed at him. “Four seems like a nice, round number. Don’t be mad if I don’t answer every one, ok? I might be busy, or Gigi might be here and she’s jealous as fuck. She knows you’re here tonight, and I think she wanted to fuck me for the first time in months this morning.” He laughed again at the look on Harry’s face. “Nah, babe. I didn’t even do it. It’s kinda nice feeling like you’re fighting over me a bit, but my dick’s gotten me in enough trouble for now. I’m gonna practice clean thoughts for a while.” 

There was a pause, filled only with two men smiling at each other and glad to understand each other better. Then it was time to go, and Harry did.

A little over a month later, Zayn uploaded another video to YouTube, his cover of “Can’t Help Falling.” This time, Harry didn’t have any doubt who Zayn was talking to.


	3. More of the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry exercises patience, which is a virtue, especially where Zayn Malik is concerned.

**More of the Middle: Why Patience Is A Virtue**

Harry did a lot of things once the tour concluded and he was officially on hiatus, but what he mostly did was wait. He had lunch with personal and business friends, he met with his accountant to learn just how much of the tour revenue would be swallowed up in taxes, he accepted invitations to dinner and to parties, he started working with a vocal coach, accepting the truth that if he didn’t stop belting every note his voice would not make it through his 20s. He found spin and yoga classes where celebrities were so common that his presence while noted went unremarked. He wrote, songs of desire and longing, songs of patience and need thwarted. Throughout every activity, from the time he woke up until the time he went to sleep at night, on planes or surrounded by people, he was conscious of waiting.

He suspected that it was similar to what Zayn told him about the month he quit smoking, about how not smoking was all Zayn really did even if it looked like he was doing other things. All his mental energy was in not smoking. Finally he had wanted his mental energy back, and he started smoking again. Harry wanted his back too, but he kept on waiting. He thought that Zayn had taught him so much already about being patient.

He texted Zayn the allowed four times a week. Zayn texted back most of the time. When he didn’t the waiting caused tightness in Harry’s chest that made him turn to his meditation cd. Breathe deeply, the calm voice instructed, let your breath fill your diaphragm and your belly, let your breath send the blood coursing to your toes. Breathe out through your nose and count slowly 1-2-3-4. Sometimes it worked.

The California sun began to feel oppressive. He went to James’s birthday party in Baja for the friendship and for the change. He was papped looking somber and pensive, and all he could think was, Zayn will see these and know that I miss him, that I’m not doing well.

When he returned to the Malibu rental that served as home base here while his adolescent self-indulgent monstrosity, the mansion he never liked, sat on a market where no one wanted to buy, he went on social media for the first time in days. He’d not texted Zayn from Mexico. It had been almost a week. What had he been up to? That’s when he saw the headline and the pictures.

**Gigi Hadid Celebrates Eid With Zayn Malik And His Sister**

Zayn and Gigi apparently celebrated Eid with Zayn’s family. As far as Harry knew, as far as Zayn had said, Gigi was basically out of the picture. She hadn’t been at Zayn’s whenever Harry and Zayn talked. Her Instagram was full of work-related pictures. Then suddenly there they were, looking very much like a couple.

Zayn hadn’t promised him anything, just to be back in touch. He didn’t have any right to feel any kind of way about this, but that didn’t stop Harry from having all kinds of feelings. He went to a spin class but felt as unsettled afterwards as he had before going. He got an organic juice smoothie and called Jeffrey to meet him for lunch to talk about his second album. When he still felt unsettled, he went to a hot yoga class he particularly liked. The ladies there were regulars and would call out, “Hi, Harry!” without wanting selfies or treating him as anything but the oddity of a man in a circle of women. He felt normal, being in that circle, and it helped some as the sweat poured off.

As soon as the class was over, though, he felt as if insects were crawling under all his tattoos, as though he had in fact an itch that only talking to Zayn could scratch, but by now he knew better than to call Zayn feeling like this.

Harry turned to his meditation cd and then went out again, for the third time that day, to an early evening spinning class, making his legs feel overworked and tight, much like his heart. He called Mitch and made plans to meet him at a craft whiskey place they’d been wanting to try. They met, they talked about touring again and about the some upcoming studio time before Mitch finally said, “Harry, you haven’t stop moving since we got here. What’s wrong with you?” Two hours later, Mitch had convinced him the best thing to do if he wanted to have a relationship with Zayn again was to let him know how he was feeling. He resolved to call when he got home.

He was surprised when Gigi answered the phone. No, he was pissed when Gigi answered the phone. It wasn’t her phone, was it? He kept his voice level. “It’s Harry. May I speak to Zayn?”

He heard Gigi yawning on the other end of the line and the rustling of sheets, like she just had to rub it in that they were in bed. “Babe?” he heard her say, “Harry’s on the line for you.”

“Tell him give me five minutes and I’ll FaceTime him.”

“Yeah, Gigi, I heard. Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

If, by waiting, Harry meant pacing and checking the laptop to see that FaceTime was open at least five times, if by five minutes Zayn meant more like fifteen, then everyone did what they said. By the time Harry saw Zayn’s bare-chested, sleepy-eyed, bedhead smile peering at him on the laptop screen, he wanted both to fuck him and to fight him. 

“Oi, H., where have you been? You haven’t texted me in days.”

“Yes, well, if I had I wouldn’t have found you, would I?” Harry smiled, a full-dimpled grin to hide the sting of the words.

“Yeah, I went home for Eid, and Gigi had a few days and wanted to come.”

Yeah, Harry bet she did. If there was a woman on the planet who seemed less likely that Gigi Hadid to celebrate anything at all with Zayn’s family, Harry had not met her. Perrie seemed like a better match. Harry had the sudden thought that he was in fact competing with Gigi for Zayn, and he almost laughed out loud from the shock of it. Zayn had said as much before, but Harry hadn’t believed him. Ok, ok. He was going to have to control himself somehow.

“How was it? Did everyone get along? Did Gigi like the food?”

“Oh, yeah, well, she’s half Palestinian, you know, so she was fine. It was good. We neither of us celebrate, but it was nice, you know, to be with the family.”

“I’m glad you got to go, Z. I’ve been in Baja. It was James’s birthday, so I got to see his kids. It was good. I’ve been a bit bored. You know how I get.”

“Yeah, you can’t sit still for long, babe. Oh, hey babe.” Gigi came into view, wearing what Harry was pretty sure was one of his very own silk shirts and nothing else. She looked gorgeous, and she wrapped herself around Zayn, putting her head on his shoulder and nuzzling into his neck.

Well, wasn’t that just great, Harry thought. She was beautiful, she was around, and she had a vagina, which meant that Zayn could take her home for Eid and everyone was happy. He knew that he wasn’t being reasonable, that Zayn would have had a relationship with him, a real one, earlier, but he didn't feel like being reasonable. Competing for a boy made him feel like he was back in sixth form again, an awkward child, not a grown up, successful pop star who got propositioned on a daily basis. Not a man good-looking enough to have two Gucci campaigns. 

He looked again at the beautiful couple in front of him and thought that just once he didn't want to be the only one in love with him. He was ready, he would commit, there was no one except Zayn. Hadn’t his months of celibacy shown Zayn anything? Not that he had told him he'd been celibate. He didn't want to look pathetic.

“Ok, I’m sorry I woke you both up. Hey, Zayn, I just wanted to tell you that I have to come to New York in a few days to see some people. I’d like to have you over for dinner and maybe to talk a little more, if you’d be up for that.”

Gigi turned from Zayn's neck to the computer screen, and he saw a little flare come and go quickly behind her eyes. There. Maybe she could learn a little bit about waiting, while she sat at home, wondering if Zayn was fucking his old boyfriend. As the old boyfriend, and he maybe didn't notice that he had given himself a promotion from fuck buddy, Harry hoped with all his being that Zayn would indeed be fucking him, more than once.

***************

When he got into New York and into the apartment that once again had been cleaned and freshened and supplied in preparation for his arrival, he was giddy with the thought of seeing Zayn soon. He texted him: _tomorrow night? im in town now_

A few minutes later he heard from Zayn: _yeah great ok if gigi comes her gig was postponed_

Uh huh. Harry just bet it was. Was there any way he could call Kendall and ask her to invent an emergency that require Gigi’s presence? Jesus, all he wanted was to be able to talk to Zayn. Why did he always do this when Harry most needed to talk to him? It was so much harder now since they weren’t naturally seeing each other every day. No, he couldn’t ask Kendall to get in the middle of this. It wasn’t fair. He was going to be patient. He waited for Liam to get busy, and this was when they were all together all the time. He would wait this one out too. 

_sure z bring her along anything she wont or cant eat_

_well shes off to a modeling gig in italy so low carb_

Of course. Everything Harry knew how to cook was pretty carb heavy. No matter--he’d have it catered. He knew just the people. And maybe he’d see who was in town, make it a foursome. 

After thinking it over, Harry had decided a lonely Harry would be more likely to spark Zayn’s compassion than a Harry on a date or with a friend. He had Zayn and Gigi over, he was on his best behavior, he kissed her hello and goodbye, he saw to her needs, he listened as she called Zayn her boyfriend, he watched as Zayn rubbed her bare thigh and kissed her neck, and he controlled himself as carefully as if he were on a nationally-televised talk show. 

When at last they left, Harry went directly to his liquor cabinet, opened the tequila inside, and poured himself two shots in rapid succession. Fuck this. He was acting like a lovestruck teenager. If he was going to wait for Zayn, he wasn’t going to be able to do it without getting some relief. At least some company.

He remembered how well he and Timothee Chalamet had hit it off during their phone interview. They were mutuals on Twitter and Instagram. It couldn't hurt to DM him and see if he was in town. Maybe he'd like to have a drink. He'd include his phone number just in case Timmy wanted to call him.

"HAR. REE. STYLES." Timmy sounded like he had already had that drink or six that Harry was going to suggest.

"Timmy! You sound like you're having fun."

"I'm just out with some friends after something work-related, but they are so boring with their day jobs. They're about to leave. Come drink with me!" 

"Where are you? Or better yet, I've started drinking tequila. Why don't you come to mine and join me?"

"Great idea. Text me your address and I'll be there in 45 minutes."

Timmy. Harry remembered how much he enjoyed Timmy's breathless enthusiasm and earnestness, how he liked the way Timmy talked to him as if he admired him. He could do with a little of that admiration right now. They'd never met, but Harry liked what he'd seen in pictures of his full red lips, his narrow frame, his limpid doe eyes. If he reminded Harry of anyone, he chased that thought away as he got out shot glasses, limes, and the bottle of tequila. He deserved to cut loose since he had been so good for so long.

Timmy was, in fact, at Harry's door in 40 minutes, a welcome change from others who couldn't be fucked to do anything when they said. He looked good in...it must be Haider Ackerman? They were as good to Timmy as Gucci had been to Harry. "Harry Styles! I'm so excited to finally meet you in person. I've hoped to be in the same place as you for ages. Oh my god, I sound like a fangirl. Surely you got enough of those while you were in One Direction. Let me start over. Mr. Styles, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Timmy's eyes twinkled, and so did Harry's as he gestured for him to come in. As he shut the door behind him, he thought only that it was very good luck that Timmy had been available.

********

Oh. Harry was prone and in bed, and if the firmness of the mattress and the softness of the sheets were any indication, it was his own. Yay. He opened one eye to the empty bottle of tequila on the night table. Ugh. He should throw that away before the cleaner came later. Too bad, though. He couldn't possibly lift an arm to pick up the bottle considering that his head was pounding just from the light in the room. He heard a slight groan from the other side of the bed. Oops.

"Oh. I really didn't want to make your first impression of me that I'm a drunken idiot. HAR. REE. I am going to get up very slowly now. Where is the bathroom? Probably the same place as last night, huh."

Harry turned his head very slowly and stared numbly as a very naked Timmy Chalamet got up from his bed and staggered into his bathroom. Harry became aware that he was also very naked. Fuck. Apparently he had gotten more than company last night.

A few minutes later he heard the shower run, and when Timmy came out with a towel wrapped around him, he looked slightly better. "Hey, can I make you some coffee? Or, just make myself some? I got hammered last night. I don't usually strip down in a stranger's bed after drinking all of their tequila. Sorry, man."

Harry stared at him for a minute before he remembered his manners. "Don't be silly, Timothee. I invited you over. I apologize for allowing us both to get so drunk that we ended up in this condition the next morning."

"Do you mean hungover or naked?"

"Oh! Well, I...." Harry looked up to see Timmy grinning at him. "Did anything happen?"

"Pretty sure we both threw off all our clothes and passed out. We were wasted. I was already kind of drunk when I got here, and then six shots of tequila really sealed the deal. Not that I wouldn't have liked it under other circumstances." Timothee then proceeded to blush the most charming shade of pink Harry had ever seen, and he wished for a moment that something _had_ happened. 

"Thanks, I'm sure I would have liked it as well. Another time?"

"Yeah, I don't know. My love life is complicated right now."

Harry had to laugh at that. "As is mine, Mr. Chalamet. As is mine. Perhaps another time in a future we can't see yet. Friends, though?"

"Absolutely. I will definitely start calling you my friend Harry Styles, and I hope you'll do the same. I mean, call me your friend Timothee...ok, you knew what I meant." Another charming blush. 

He really liked this kid a lot. He had Harry Styles-level charm but without so much guardedness. He'd like to see him again if their lives got less complicated. 

"Ok, you will find coffee, which I do have, in the cupboard next to the sink, and I'll have a quick shower and some paracetamol, and then I'll whip us up something easy on the stomach, like toast."

Some 45 minutes later, still pretty hungover and leaving in a now wrinkled Haider Ackerman, Timothee didn't notice the paparazzo who got a lucky shot of him coming out of Harry's building. When it hit the tabloids the next day, Harry had seen it and was ready for the text he got from Zayn:

_you couldn't wait could you gigi said as much_

Harry Styles was fucked again, and he really had not had sex in months and months. Life could be so unfair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry. He can't do anything right. If the real-life people these characters share a name with were in fact involved in anything like this kind of push/pull situation, I have a feeling that Harry would be learning just this level of patience. It builds character, I'm told.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and critique are welcome. Thanks for reading!


	4. Stuck in the Middle Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry avoids Zayn. It goes really well, as expected.

The more Harry thought about it, the less inclined he was to feel guilty or apologetic. Who did Zayn think he was? Yes, Harry had gotten between Zayn and Liam, but if their relationship had been stronger they could have weathered the storm. If Zayn hadn’t wanted him, he had given him several chances that night to turn him down. If Zayn thought that Harry was just going to sit and wait for Zayn to decide in his generosity to forgive him, then he had another think coming. Of course he would assume that if Timothee was coming out of Harry’s, they must have had sex, because if the situation had been reversed, that’s what Zayn would have been doing. Meantime, Zayn had his supermodel, and Harry had dick. Well. He didn’t have that, actually, besides his own.

He texted Zayn back before he could change his mind.

_of course you assume the worst of me as always ill be leaving ny now have a good life_

He called his PA to get him on the next flight to London and texted Grimmy for a heart to heart. He needed Grimmy’s level-headedness, and at this point there was almost no one in Harry’s life who would listen to him whinge about Zayn. 

Two days later he was having a sober lunch with Nick, trying his patience with a fair and honest recounting of everything he had done for Zayn lately. 

“H. Do you want my opinion, or do you just want to whinge on and on?”

“I want your advice! Of course I do, that’s why I asked you to meet me!”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t expect to like anything ever again, to be honest. Go ahead. Kick me while I’m down.”

“Ah, poor Harry, your life is so hard. You could walk out of here and pull someone well fit in 30 seconds, but you want the only person in the world with a reason to hate you. Strange, innit.”

This is why he asked Grimmy, it was. This is why they were friends. Harry took a deep breath before admitting that yes, he was aware of his enormous privilege and also that perhaps, _perhaps_ , there was something a bit off about wanting Zayn after all this time, given their history, but please, enough making fun of him and more advice, please.

“Here’s the thing, Harry. Zayn has always been sensitive and emotional, from the get. He’s always been quick to take offense, although to be fair he’s also always been quick to forgive and is a lovely lad inside and out. Sorry. I know you don’t want to hear he’s lovely, but he is. That’s part of the problem. But is he _your_ lovely person? You are, how do I put this, very casual about your romantic entanglements. You always have been. I see you as a George Clooney type, really. You’ll probably marry a bird when you’re in your fifties and have children, be the oldest dad at parent night, but it’ll be okay because you’re Harry Styles--”

“Grimmy, really. Shut. Up. Are you advising me or telling my fortune?”

“No reason I can’t do a bit of both, is there? As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted by the very person who has sought out my wise counsel…” Nick laughed at Harry’s expression. “Ok, here it is. You and Zayn are not a good match. He’s serious and you’re casual. More importantly, he takes himself seriously, and you just want a laugh. He wants a relationship, and you don’t, not really. You just want him to want you.”

Huh. Harry was going to have to think about this. Did he just want Zayn because he couldn’t have him? It would be just like him; he’d always hated thinking someone didn’t like him.

“Thanks, Grimmy. Really, thanks. You’re probably right about this. Shut up. I always say when you’re right. I’m going to think about this a lot. In the meantime, I’m going to go to Mum’s. It’s been ages.”

As they parted at the door of the tiny lunchroom near Nick’s work, Harry hugged Nick with enthusiasm. He had given him genuinely good advice, and he was going to take it.

**************

Following good advice was easier said than done, Harry reflected. He had spent a good week with his mum and Gemma, who managed to get a long weekend off in the middle of his stay. They stayed up late watching rom coms, and if Harry occasionally got wet-eyed, he had the movie to blame. Gemma teased him constantly and reminded him that he wasn’t really all that, no matter what he might get to thinking when he spent too much time away from his closest people. He talked to Mitch. He was too superstitious to want to return to Jamaica for work on HS2, but it would be good to go somewhere away. They discussed where they might go, and Mitch promised to ask around among his musician friends. Really, his life was full. And yet.

When he had five minutes to himself, thoughts of Zayn returned. He missed Zayn’s fond looks more than anything, and it had been so long since one was directed at him. Zayn had the softest, sweetest gaze in the world. It was quite addicting, wasn’t it, and Harry just wanted Zayn to look at him like that again. When he closed his eyes at night, instead of falling instantly asleep as was his usual blessing in life, he tossed and turned, re-litigating the entire relationship and convincing Zayn that everyone else was bad for him. Only Harry could make him happy. He half believed his own arguments. No one had ever gotten under his skin like this.

After ten days back home, he woke up one morning after another restless night, looked at his bleary reflection in the mirror, and decided it was time to go back to California and get to work. He needed to be really busy and….just busy. He needed to have sex, even if it wasn’t with Zayn. So. A week in London, and then back to California. It was a plan.

Harry hadn’t counted on Zayn releasing more music. 

When “Fingers” dropped on 20 October, Harry was en route to LA. He had a Halloween party to attend at the Gerbers, and he was really jazzed about his costume. He’d been entirely sober for weeks and planned to drink too much and focus on having a good time. He needed a fitting and a few yoga sessions. He really had never found yoga classes in London to rival those in LA.

He didn’t admit it, but he had a YouTube account linked to a Gmail address that no one knew about, not even his PA, and maybe it was a bit obvious but kissy2017@gmail.com had so far not been discovered. He was signed up for notifications when Zayn released anything, so when he saw “Fingers” was uploaded to YouTube, he immediately clicked on the link.

__

_Fucked and I want ya_  
_Looked and I loved ya_  
_Stuck, now I need ya_  
_Hopin’ I'd see ya_  
_Touch and I feel how_  
_Much can you see her, no_  
_Hiding all your features, sliding down the filter_  
_Show me, you just in the middle_  
_Don't be hiding what you thinkin’_

__  
__  


____

Oh Zayn. That fucker. Zayn knew his weaknesses; he knew that Harry, narcissistic as he undoubtedly was, could never resist a song written for him. This was his, and he knew it. Zayn just couldn’t stay mad, and he missed Harry too. Harry felt his heart melt. _Zayn_. He would call him as soon as he was home. No. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to forgive him. Grimmy was right; they were bad for each other. They had been better off staying away from each other. 

With that resolve, Harry got back to LA, went to his party, got lots of media attention looking like he was having a great time, which he 100% was, even if occasionally he felt a pang thinking of Zayn, alone now that Gigi was off working. No. No! They were bad for each other! 

And if Harry left the party alone that night, and if Harry didn’t drink enough to do anything stupid and in fact went to hot yoga the next afternoon to sweat out what he did drink, then Zayn didn’t need to know about any of it. With that, Harry did what all celebs at his level of fame knew how to do well: he ghosted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two(?) more chapters to our (somewhat) happy ending for the biggest idiots in the world. Also, never take relationship advice from a single person.


	5. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns a lesson, that even pop stars can't always do as they please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for BDSM (in this chapter only) and humiliation.

Harry Styles wanted to spend some time alone.

It always amused him, listening to celebrities complain about fans and paparazzi. He spent five years of his life basically surrounded by fans and being papped, and it had taught him how to become invisible. The paparazzi were just like anyone else: if they were looking for you, they looked for the patterns you had already established. Fans too. Everybody knew by now that Harry liked yoga, so if for any reason people were trying to find him they’d hit up yoga classes and juice bars in the Hollywood Hills. They’d be outside his house or outside the Gerbers or the Cordens. 

The bottom line, though, was that most celebrities weren’t that interesting most of the time. Paps might know that a lot of celebrities grocery shopped at Bristol Farms, but unless you were specifically being papped because you had asked to be or because you were in the middle of a scandal, you got left alone. More dangerous were fans.

Harry had found that fans with phones were the main reason his picture turned up on social media. He had learned to ask them politely to wait a few days to post the pictures he willingly posed for, so he could always be somewhere else when the pics surfaced. Anyway, he had to go out in populated areas even for fans to find him. It was easy, then. He could stay around the house, or he could go to a friend’s rural estate, or he could do his favorite thing, get in the car and drive. He decided he could do two at once. 

Harry loved CA1 and sometimes would take it all the way from Malibu north to beyond the Bay Area. He’d camped a few times in Redwood National Forest, alone and with friends. This time, he thought he might drive up to Mendocino, where Jeff had a “cabin” up in the hills nearby. It would be a long, beautiful drive, when he could think and listen to music and contemplate what if anything he needed to do about or with Zayn Malik. More than anything he wanted to explore this idea that had surfaced on tour that he wanted Zayn to punish him. He wasn’t sure if it was physical or emotional punishment he was after, but he knew this much: he needed to forgive himself, and that required some kind of penance. 

He made himself a strong cup of organic English breakfast tea to clear his mind. Grimmy wasn’t wrong about him and Zayn. They weren’t ideally suited, but they were pulled toward each other. It was toxic in some ways, but what wasn’t? Z and Perrie had been well suited. That had worked out well, hadn't it. As for Gigi, he knew she was about as deep as Kendall. She was with Zayn to boost her followings, and if he stopped being a plus, she’d be gone. Not like Harry, who gave zero fucks about being more famous. 

Harry debated about whether he wanted to camp in Big Sur for a night. Yes, he decided, and went to the garage to start pulling out his lightweight camping gear. The early autumn weather would be perfect for a night under the stars, and he couldn’t wait.

****

**************

While he was driving what was, in his opinion, the most beautiful stretch of coastal highway in the world, through the lower half of Big Sur, Harry thought of Zayn, thought of how suspicious he always had been, how quickly his softest smiles could turn sour. Louis always said that it was because of how soft his heart was, how anyone who loved as Zayn did, easily, quickly, generously, was just as easily turned bitter. It was unusually perceptive of Louis, but then Harry had always underestimated his perceptiveness. 

“It’s like a rose, Harry,” he’d said, “Look how easy it is to bruise the petals. That’s our Zayn. Easy to bruise. Delicate. ‘S why you should stay away from him. You’re too rough, mate.”

But Harry hadn’t listened, had thought he knew best. Had thought so all the way until Zayn was gone. He opened the moon roof on the Rover and let the scent of pine cleanse his lungs of their tightness.

By the time Harry reached Plaskett Creek Campground, it was only 3 pm, just the start of check ins, and the place was almost deserted. He had been there before and knew to reserve site 10, off the road, in the shade, and a bit away from the others. He had asked and determined that only four sites were reserved for that night, so he could decide whether or not to be friendly or aloof when the other campers arrived. He left everything in the Range Rover, stripped down to the trunks he had worn for just this reason, and headed down to Sand Dollar Beach, eager to stick his feet into the icy Pacific. 

A long walk along the beach and a bit of impromptu yoga meant that it was almost 4 when Harry got back to his site. Damn. Of course, there was a motorcycle at the next site, and a young, long-haired dude was already setting up his tent. Harry nodded at him, uncertain whether or not he wanted a conversation, but before he could decide the guy decided for him.

“Hey, I’m Caden. When did you get in?” His voice was as deep as Harry’s own and held a hint of darkness and invitation.

“Hiya, Harry. Maybe an hour ago? I went down to the beach.”

“Ah, British. You automatically seem smart.” Caden grinned to demonstrate the lack of insult. “You look like that guy who was in that boy band, whazzit? Wait--you _are_ that guy. What are you doing at a random campground in Big Sur? You’re Harry Styles, right? The hot guy from One Direction.”

“Oh. Thanks? Zayn was the hot one, though.” Jesus, he couldn’t leave Zayn out of a casual conversation with a stranger. Harry felt a flush creep up his neck and quickly added a bit ruefully, “Yes, Harry Styles, I’m afraid. I was trying to get away from it all."

“Oh, did I interrupt you?” Caleb said. “I can just…”

“No, wait,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Company sounds nice, actually. Let’s get set up, and then I’ve got a nice bottle of Brunello you might help me drink?” Harry had had a chance to look Caden over, and he liked what he saw: long, lean, with unusual almond-shaped blue eyes and a sharp jawline that reminded him of everything he found attractive.

“Not usually a big wine drinker, but sure. I travel super light, but there’s a campground down the road with showers. They don’t mind if you use them, especially around this time. Why don’t you come with? We can get clean together.” Caden’s eyes flickered quickly from Harry’s torso down his legs before returning to linger on his lips. 

Harry agreed to go after setting up. A shower would be nice, and getting naked would be nicer. Caden seemed young, definitely younger than Harry, but there was something about him that seemed adventurous and fun, and it had been ages since Harry had a one-night stand.

They parted amicably, and Harry was able to quickly set up his small but luxe tent, take out his solar-powered frig and fill it with water bottles, and sling his food bag over the lowest branch of the pine tree by his site. He had decided not to change--he felt like putting on a bit of a show. He ran a clothesline from “his” tree to the next, hanging blankets to create a little privacy for...things. Private things.

A few minutes later he was riding behind Caden on his bike, holding on to his slim waist and carrying both their shower bags over one arm. He enjoyed the feel of lean muscle under his hands. Caden’s tank top revealed some interesting ink between his shoulder blades, just where Zayn had his favorite tat. This was a dragon, whose green scales shimmered faintly and moved as Caden shifted gears in response to the road. The sun felt warm on Harry’s bare back, and he was feeling pretty great about being in Big Sur with a friend for the night.

Turned out folks at the adjacent campground didn’t give the two men so much as a glance, and the showers were warm, with decent water pressure. They had stalls but no curtains, so Harry got several glimpses of Caden’s small, round ass and untrimmed bush. He was cut, like almost all American men, and he had a nice dick too. When Harry stepped out of his own stall, he slung his towel around his neck while he shook the extra water out of his hair. As he looked up again, he caught Caden admiring the view. Yes, tonight would be good.

Caden suggested they sit outside the shower while the jeans he had showered in dried, so he and Harry chatted about their travels, about Big Sur, and about life in general. Caden was taking a gap year before starting university--oh god, he was a baby but forceful for one--and traveling to all the US national parks “before Trump turns them all over to the fucking energy industry.”

Harry agreed that that would be a damn shame, since he loved America’s parks as much as the next guy who grew up on an island. America was so spacious--it got to him eventually, but it always felt good, expansive, to spend time outdoors here, especially in the West. Caden had other opinions--it might have been boring if Harry had paid closer attention, but he found himself admiring the younger man’s golden skin and curly blond hair, the short beard, the bright blue eyes made brighter by his tan. He really was hot, wasn’t he?

By the time they got back to their campsites, the sun was starting to set and a few more tents had gone up, couples who seemed more interested in each other than in Harry or Caden. It was off season, being early fall, so it looked like they might have their end of the campground to themselves. Harry pulled out his two camp chairs, because you can never be too prepared, and invited Caden over for wine and the pasta that he would heat up as soon as they made a fire in the fire pit.

Later, bellies full of pasta and wine, with the sun almost vanished over the distant coastline, Harry offered to open a second bottle of wine. 

“Or maybe you’d join me for a little bud?” Caden asked.

“I don’t really have the lungs for it,” Harry said regretfully. “Asthma.”

“Can you handle shotgunning?”

“Actually yes, in small doses, and if you’re offering I’d love to.”

Caden lit a joint, inhaled deeply, then bent over Harry, grasping the back of his neck to hold his head still. He slowly released the smoke into Harry’s waiting mouth, lingering a second beyond what was necessary, his fingers applying a light pressure to the back of Harry’s neck and one thumb stretched and resting lightly against the side of Harry’s throat like a promise. His warm hand slowly dropped to his side, and he smiled lazily at Harry as if to say, your move, you’re the adult here. His skin was flushed with good health and bursting with a vitality that Harry was finding enormously attractive.

Harry, though, was reminded that getting high on top of drinking meant that he lost all inhibitions, and not just sexual ones. He found himself babbling to Caden about Zayn, relaying in too much detail the entire story over a second bottle of wine even as a part of his brain looked on in dismay. He managed to avoid naming names, but that was all he left out. God. Did he want to get laid tonight or not? At last, thankfully, Caden interrupted him.

“Harry. We just met, and maybe you just wanted someone to listen to you, but do you want some advice from a kid who’s lived on his own for two years, long enough to know a few things?” When Harry nodded, Caden leaned in, his blue eyes looking intently into Harry’s green ones. “I felt this when I first spoke with you earlier today, before you told me any of this. You’re a bit of a sub, I think, and a bit of a masochist as well. Have you spent any time in that scene? Because I’m a bit of a dom, and I spend quite a bit of time in it. Maybe you’d be interested in...exploring that side of yourself tonight.”

Harry felt something shift in his awareness, a small realignment of his identity as he recognized that Caden might be right, that it turned him on a little, and that he was ashamed of a kid seeing something in him that he hadn’t seen in himself really, causing him to protest. “That seems presumptuous, Caden. You’re what, 18, 19? You don’t know me, you only know that I feel guilty and that I say that I only love someone when I can’t have them.”

“Really, Harry?” Caden asked softly. “Tell me your heart didn’t beat a little faster when I let my hand rest on the side of your throat. Tell me you’re not getting hard right now just remembering it. I could pull down those trunks, stretch you out across my lap, and spank you, and you’d love it. You’re a bad boy, and if your ex-lover doesn’t know how to correct your behavior, I do. I may be young, but I know things.”

Harry felt his skin warm as the image of himself stretched out, being disciplined with Caden’s strong young hands, caused his dick to pulse and harden. Jesus. It was true. He wanted this.

“How about we turn some music on, Harry? To cover any sounds I might make when I correct you. You won’t make any sounds, because I won’t allow it. So you understand? Don’t say anything; just nod.”

Harry nodded slightly, knowing intuitively that he should no longer make eye contact with Caden, who had pulled his chair right next to Harry’s and was now drawing his nails down the outside of Harry’s thigh, just enough to cause discomfort, to make lines that reddened and swelled slightly. Harry was overwhelmed with gratitude and more shame. He wanted more than anything to drop to his knees, unzip Caden’s jeans, and suck him off until he came down Harry’s throat, to keep his eyes down and his own cock chaste and untouched. He waited breathlessly for Caden to give him an order.

“I can’t punish you the way I’d like to, Harry, because the other campers out here are too quiet. If we were at a bar, I’d take you in a bathroom stall right now and hit your ass cheeks until I made bruises. I’d abuse your hole with my fingers first until you begged for my cock in your ass. God, Harry. I’d like to see you begging. I’d rip strips from your tee shirt to tie your hands behind your back and stuff the rest in your mouth to muffle your moans, then after I finished I’d just leave you there to figure out how to get out of the club with your shirt in tatters and your ass too sore to let you walk. You complain about your love life, but you’re the most fuckable person I’ve ever met. You just haven’t put yourself in the right hands.”

Caden cupped Harry’s fully erect dick through his shorts so suddenly that Harry gasped. “Tell me you don’t want all of that. Tell me you won’t take whatever I’ll give you right now, you spoiled little pop star.” The rational part of Harry’s brain whispered urgently that doing this here, now, with this stranger, was probably not a good idea, but Harry had never been good about listening to reason, especially when he drank. 

Caden pulled Harry to his feet suddenly. “I thought so,” he said. “Let’s go in your tent, but first take off those shorts. I want to look at you.”

Harry obeyed, because suddenly that was the thing he wanted to do most in the world, and felt another twinge of shame at the way his dick hardened even more in the cool night air under Caden’s steady gaze. He wasn’t expecting the light slap to his balls that Caden gave suddenly. It hurt, but he liked it. He gasped, and Caden chuckled slightly before slapping him again. “Get in the tent on your sleeping bag, hands and knees. I just have to get a few supplies, but I’ll be right back.”

Harry did as he was told. He waited, dick hard and leaking, ass facing the entrance to the tent, for a boy at least five years younger than he to tell him what to do next. He felt himself blush with the joyful shame of it, the possibility that Caden might leave him here all night, longing, that he might be going to get his camera, that he would post photos of Harry Styles’s ass on Instagram, that he might regret this for the rest of what would be a short and scandalous career. Senses heightened, he heard the distant sound of the occasional car on the highway, the hooting of an owl, what he hoped were Caden’s footsteps coming closer.

“Damn. You look good, Harry. You follow orders well, too. I’ve got lube. I might use it if you act right.”

At that, Harry felt Caden’s hands run down his sides before delivering a sharp stinging slap to his right ass cheek, followed by one to his left, then again to his right, until he finally lost count. Apparently Caden didn’t need to have him in a bathroom stall, although he would have endured that gladly. He bit his lower lip, hard, to keep from begging Caden to fuck him, to keep himself from crying out from the glorious pain. It felt good, because he was bad. He deserved to be punished. If only Zayn were the one delivering the blows.

****

**************

When Harry woke up at first light, he was alone. He couldn’t see but could feel that he probably had bruises on his ass from the blows he had endured the night before, and his hole clenched a bit in sympathy. He winced; Caden had fucked him hard, and he was sore from that too. He had called him names, using everything he had babbled in his intoxication against him: selfish, narcissistic, spoiled, unworthy, shallow. 

Harry blushed again to remember how every word had made him harder, made him want to beg to be allowed to come, and he felt the puffiness of his lower lip from how hard he had had to bite it to keep his mouth shut. He had never wanted to come so much, but after fucking him hard and long, after cautioning him against coming without permission, Caden had finally pounded into Harry one last time with a grunt, falling forward against his sweaty back. “Don’t move,” Caden hissed. “I’m going to pull out, and I want you to stay right where you are.”

Harry had, for minutes on end, feeling foolish and delirious with the need for an orgasm, until the pain in his knees drove him to the ground. His last conscious thought was that he didn’t deserve to feel pleasure, and that he deserved whatever Caden had planned for him, which turned out to be nothing at all.

A little after first light, Harry crawled slowly to the opening of his tent, looked left, and saw that Caden’s campsite was empty. Well then. At least there would be no awkward goodbyes? He hoped one last time that he wouldn’t find his wallet missing or see pictures of his bruised ass on the internet later before he dressed himself and began slowly and painfully to clear his site in preparation for departure. When he got to Jeff’s place, he would call Zayn, beg his forgiveness, take the blame for everything. He felt aroused by the thought of it. He _had_ been too rough when all along he just wanted someone to be rough with him. He would think later about what this meant. For now, he was eager to share this new side of himself with Zayn.

He found his phone attached to the car charger, battery dead. It would charge on the road. Within minutes of leaving the campsite, Harry heard the pings of messages begin. Fuck. What had he done? More importantly, what had Caden done?


	6. Is This Really The End?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces consequences for his rash behavior, but he doesn't care as much as he might have under different circumstances.

Once Harry had his phone charging in the moving Rover, and he had 1% of battery and the messages could start coming, he listened in horror at ping after ping. It was a photo, probably. 

“Siri, call Jeff.”

“Calling Jeff,” came Siri’s mechanical voice as the sound of Jeff’s mobile began. He picked up before the second ring ended.

“Harry! Where the fuck are you? What happened?”

“I’m in the car, just outside a campground in Big Sur. My phone’s been dead since sometime last night--I was using it to play music whilst camping up here. I’m not going to play dumb. How bad is it? Photos? Can you see my face?”

“Photos, yes, Harry, two. One is full length nude with your ass looking like it’s been through a meat grinder--are you sitting on that ass in the car? Is the photo real, and if so, how are you standing it?”

“I’m wearing my softest sweats and sitting on my pillow, Jeff, so yeah, the photo is real. Can you see my face? Any way to say it was staged?”

“No, you’re asleep, with your face turned toward whoever took the picture. Jesus, Harry, I’ve heard from every tabloid, and entertainment website, fucking TMZ won’t leave it alone--by the way, they’ll pay you a million for an exclusive interview--it’s blown up your Twitter and Instagram, it’s all over the place, Harry. Don’t look at any of it.”

“I better see the picture, hadn’t I?”

“Pictures, Harry. With an -s. The other is a close up of your face in the same position, clearly in the same tent, the same hair, so you can’t claim it wasn’t you. What were you thinking? Jesus, we know, Harry. We’ve known there was something there, all your getting attached to older men, how handsy you get when you drink, some of the things you say--”

“It’s why I seldom drink, Jeff. I lose my shit, as you well know. Does Ben know?”

“He’s flying over right now. Just, come straight here, go around the back way of course, and we’ll figure out a strategy. Don’t worry about it now. It’s done, and thank fuck that there’s so much going on in the news every day this will blow over. It’s just a matter of how you want to handle it, right? We’ll figure it out. Just--I’ll see you in a few hours, yeah? Ben will probably be in an hour or two after you, and then we’ll talk. I might ask my dad over…”

“No, Christ, no. Jeff. Just you and me and Ben, ok? I’ll tell you everything, but I don’t want to tell anyone else, and I don’t want to tell it more than once.”

“We can talk about it, babe. Are you alright? Did that guy hurt you?”

“He didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do, Jeff. I need to be clear about that. Yeah, he hurt me a bit. I’m sore, but no lasting damage. If you have any of that ibuprofen ointment we got in Paris last time, I could use some of that. I’m going to be pretty sore by the time I get to you.”

“You don’t sound that upset, Haz.”

“Well, maybe it hasn’t hit me yet? Maybe I’m tired of being the good boy all the time? I was experimenting. It was really hot at the time, but I was drunk and behaved foolishly. But I don’t care that much about my sexuality being open. You know that. I didn’t do this on purpose, but I guess I’m not upset it’s happened. I mean, I don’t want to be the center of a scandal. It doesn’t fit with what I want for myself. But it’s ok. Maybe I can just lay low for a while.”

“I don’t think so. I think at the very least you’re going to have to issue a statement of some sort. We’ve already reached out to Instagram to take the pictures down, but the damage is done. Are you on the road, Harry?”

“Yeah, headed south.”

“Ok, let’s hang up. I don’t want you distracted driving the coast. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, Jeff, ok.” Harry clicked off the phone from the steering wheel and sat a few minutes in silence. When he got out of Big Sur he was going to stop and text Zayn.

**************

_Are you in NY? Can I come? I’ve fucked up pretty spectacularly._

_I saw._

_Are you mad at me_

_Doesn’t matter. You need me now. Come to me_

That’s exactly what Harry would do, as soon as he faced his oldest and best partners and friends. ****

**************

Harry was waiting with Jeff at his Malibu home when Ben came in from London. By then, Jeff had smeared a cream on his ass that was supposed to help with bruising and added a pain-relief ointment from the doctor, not surprisingly in a prescription for Harry Styles. He was wearing super soft pants and track pants, he’d had a shower, he’d had time to compose himself and to feel less like he was waiting for execution. For his part, Jeff had gently hugged him hello, made him pull down his pants so he could see the damage, treated his wounds, so to speak, and left him with an iPad and the guest room to use the few hours he had before Ben’s arrival. Jeff knew how much Harry looked up to Ben and how much he wanted Ben's approval, always had, but he wisely said nothing, just reminded Harry that he was on his side and would do whatever they all agree was best.

A couple of hours later, Harry had seen the pictures on a gossip site that took great delight in dragging all the 1D members through the mud. They had been re-posted on Twitter, because there were over 20K comments on a deleted tweet. Most of it sounded shocked but supportive, of the “I’m sure Harry has some explanation for this” and “Maybe we should all just chill until he talks about it” type. Jeff was right. Disappearing probably wasn’t going to be as effective as when his “break-ups” with various women were fresh. He still didn’t understand why he wasn’t more upset. Harry genuinely cared about his image and took pains to protect it. But somehow the fact that Zayn was willing to see him now meant more than embarrassing photos on the internet. He heard the front door slam and the sound of Ben’s voice. Time to face the first verse of the music.

****

**************

_I’m at the door_

On the Azoff jet to New York, Harry had imagined a hundred scenarios for his meeting with Zayn. He might be judgmental. Sometimes he could get that way, especially when he’d been in an extended period without fucking up himself. He might be indifferent; that seemed more likely. Zayn, in track pants and a white henley--this scenario was _very _specific-- barefoot, arms folded in front of him, face solemn, just listening as Harry babbled on and on about....what, exactly? He had tried to manipulate Zayn for years. Maybe he would just tell him everything that had happened and how he felt about it. It couldn’t go any more poorly than everything he’d done before. With that, Harry was able to sleep fitfully the rest of the flight. By the time the car dropped him at the underground entrance to Zayn’s building, he felt very tired but still very calm. Interesting.__

____

____

In all of Harry’s scenarios, he had not imagined that Zayn would open the door, fix Harry with his fondest gaze, and then carefully fold Harry into his arms, murmuring, “Babe, babe, this must suck for you.”

Harry’s eyes welled. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t cry or beg or in any way try to play on Z’s emotions, but kindness was so unexpected. Ah, well. Zayn never kicked a man when he was down.

“I don’t mind, Z. If you’re speaking to me, if we’re speaking to each other, I don’t mind what it looks like. I just have a lot to tell you, and I want to listen too, of course, and then if you tell me to go….”

“Harry. Stop. You know that I’m not going to kick you out. You can stay here as long as you like, hide out if you like. Let me look at your ass, babe. It must be really hurting after all those hours of travel.”

__“Nah, Jeff sent me on their jet, and it has a bedroom. I was able to lie on my stomach. Still, probably it would be good to see what it looks like. I hate that I can’t see it.” Harry almost said that he hated that he sort of liked how it felt, but that wouldn’t have been true. He accepted that he sort of liked how it felt. He had always needed to be good, and when he wasn’t, he needed to feel punished. He got it now. He dropped his sweats and pants, and dutifully turned his back to Zayn, wincing at the exposure and at the hiss he heard behind him. Whatever happened now, he was over the worst of it._ _

____

____

**************

“Oh babe. I hate that fucker. Who does this to someone, even if that person wants it, and then posts it on Instagram? He wanted to hurt you, or hurt someone. Jesus. Do you have ointment? In your backpack? Ok if I get it?”

"Yeah course. Just go easy on me. If I were you I might want to give my arse a pinch for being all over the internet like a slag. Don't laugh at me, Z. It's not nice. I deserve it, but it's still mean. Jeff says I'm going to have to make a statement, like some kind of half truth that he got me drunk and then did that shit when I was passed out, but I don't want to do it. I don't want to lie about things. It's why you and I always used to say as little as possible, right, Z? So we didn't have to lie, at least not to anybody but each other? Ouch! That hurts!"

“Sorry, babe. I can't put the ointment on without touching you. Jesus. He beat the shit out of you. I know you have a pain kink--don't turn around, babe. I know you do. I've known for a long time. Hard to hide that stuff from a lover. But this went beyond play and into torture. I wonder if he drugged you, seriously. Ok, Haz, does that feel better? Can I pull everything up now? Babe, use your words. Ah, Haz, babe. It’s ok. You didn’t kill anybody or eat any baby seals. You just got an overly enthusiastic and unscrupulous dom at a moment of weakness. It was because of me, because of us, wasn’t it?”

“No. I'd like to say that it was, but I haven’t been right since you told me we were over, that you were going to be with Liam. I’ve acted like a proper arsehole, and I’m going to cry because you’re being kind to me, but I don’t want to because you can’t resist me crying, and I don’t want to manipulate you. But if you're asking if I wanted your punishment, then yeah, I did. I do. I can't explain why, but it's something I need in a relationship. I think it's why nothing ever lasts with me.”

“Babe, babe, babe. Haz. You are the hardest person in the world to resist, true enough. It’s like your Achilles’ heel, cuz you want to be so good and everybody is always trying to grab a piece of you. If you need to be punished, then we can talk about it, ok? I'm not saying I can do that for you, but we're all weird. Gigi...nah, never mind. I promised her I'd never tell. Haz, no! You can't drag it out of me unless you get me really drunk! But cry if you need to, babe. I might cry too. Gigi came over and got her essentials, she called them I believe, and is having a service come get the rest in a couple of days.”

“Oh, fuck, Zayn. I didn’t even ask about her. Is it--are you ok?”

“Yah, sure, I am. I loved Gigi, but I always loved you more. Just like I loved Liam a little, but I always loved you more. Nobody really wants to put up with any of that, turns out. Who knew? Don’t look so shocked. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to be defensive or mean or dishonest. I’m just done with all that. It’s exhausting, and it makes me smoke too much bud and wallow in bitterness.”

“That’s what I decided too, Z. It sounds like maybe we’re at the same place at the same time for once.”

“Yah, could be. You want to get some rest and talk about all this in the morning?”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, I’m knackered, but...ugh. I don’t know how to say what I need, Z.”

“With your words, Haz? Just with your words. If it helps I’ll turn around and you can say what you need to say to my back. Ah. You just need a cuddle? Sure, babe. You can sleep in my bed, alright? We can talk until we fall asleep, and then we’ll just sleep until we wake up.”

And that was what they did. It might still be the end, but not yet. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. They're trying to work it out, and if they have any chance in this fictional world they'll have to negotiate around all their various issues. The ending won't be sunny, because Zarry, but it might be as happy as anyone could reasonably hope for. They both deserve it, in fiction and IRL.


	7. Our Bodies, Possessed By Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys reach the end of this part of their journey, older and wiser.

From "Scheherazade" 

_Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means_  
_we’re inconsolable._  
_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
_These, our bodies, possessed by light._  
_Tell me we’ll never get used to it._

by Richard Silken

His first awareness was pain, an ache that spread from his bum up his back, that made him come slowly and reluctantly awake. His second was a tattooed arm around his waist that brought with it the sting of tears and relief. Zayn’s bed. Zayn’s arm. _Zayn_.

Harry stirred, grimacing a little at the throb created by movement. Holy shit, he had let this happen. Now that he was with Zayn all his natural defenses began re-assembling themselves, busy ants that they were, and he felt himself beginning to construct a story to tell Zayn, to tell himself, about how Caden had gotten him so drunk that he didn’t know what he was doing, had assaulted him. How it wasn’t his fault.

The part of Harry that was trying to be wiser noticed, stopped the assembly, settled into the knowledge that he had sought this out, that his pain was indeed self-chosen and only failed to satisfy him because the hand resting warm against his stomach didn’t administer it. He wondered if this was something Zayn might do, now that he was here, once he was healed up, if there was a relationship to recover and this was not just Zayn being kind as usual. Another part of wiser Harry decided to think about his need for self-punishment, to talk about it with Zayn, even, if he got the chance.

Zayn stirred beside him, opened his eyes, smiled slightly, slurred out in his ear, “How are you feeling? How’s your bum?”

Wincing, Harry carefully turned himself over in the bed to face Zayn, mourning the loss of the warm arm across his belly but wanting to look in his face. “It hurts, Z. And I’m ashamed and even worse dreading what Jeff is going to insist I have to say in some kind of public statement. D’you think I really have to say anything?”

Zayn’s eyes opened a bit wider. “Really, Hazza? You’re asking me for advice on PR? You must really be desperate.”

“I am, I think. ‘M afraid you’re going to wash your hands of me, because I’ve been the worst everything, boyfriend, although I guess I never was that, more a fuck buddy, terrible fuck buddy, worst friend, worst bandmate, worst pop star….”

“Shut up, babe. You always do this, slag off on yourself before anyone has a chance to be mad at you. 'M not mad anyway. It’s in the past. ‘M all about the future now. Said so in an interview.” Once again, Harry marveled at how clearly Zayn saw him and yet showed no signs of rejecting him for it.

“So….assuming that I live beyond whatever Jeff makes me do, are you saying...I mean, are you, like, interested in exploring some kind of relationship with me?”

“Already told you I love you and always have. Why wouldn’t I want to know you again? I’ve punished you too. It was a shit thing to do, making you entertain Gigi. It was on purpose, too. Wanted to see how far you’d go, what you’d put up with. ‘M an asshole too.”

Harry was going to cry again. He had never had any control over his tear ducts. To mask it, he buried his face in Zayn’s neck and breathed him in, breathed in the faint scent of tobacco that clung to Zayn and always made him want to scold him. That might have been a clue, long ago, that he wanted to take care of Zayn. He never cared that Louis smoked.

“So, friends at least? Because I miss that too, Z, just being able to laugh with you, just telling you my secrets and knowing you didn’t judge me….” Harry couldn’t say more.

“Ah, babe. Stop dwelling. It’s not like you. That’s my style, always brooding and worrying about what I’ve missed out on.” Zayn’s voice was warm, and the thumbs that stroked under Harry’s eyes, wiping away the tears that had fallen, unbidden, were gentle.

Harry eased himself closer to Zayn, reached his free hand up to Zayn’s hair. “I love it, Zayn. I love how your hair is all natural and getting long. It’s beautiful. Your last two selfies took my breath away. Were they for me?”

Zayn laughed then. “Not everything is about you, Haz. I post sometimes just so my fans know I’m still alive. That’s my version of PR.”

“You knew I’d see them, though, and get turned on by how beautiful you looked,” Harry said confidently. He knew the way they had operated the past four years, the ways they had communicated when they were going months without talking. It was why he had deliberately stopped being seen in public as much as possible, the reason he let himself be photographed mostly alone or with fans or with families. He was proving something to Zayn. It was always about Zayn. And then it was as though Zayn was in his head.

“It’s always about you in a way. It’s been about you since I figured out that a cute hipster boy from Holmes Chapel was more than he appeared. I’ve always wanted to take care of you.”

“I wish I had let you.”

* * *

A few days passed quietly. They didn’t go out. They didn’t fuck. The bruises on Harry’s ass gradually faded from angry splotches of purple to swathes of yellow. After some thought and some talking with Zayn, Harry argued with Jeff about making a written statement, insisting that he wanted to address the photos in an interview. He suggested that he go on _Chatty Man_. He’d always liked Alan Carr, thought he was underrated as an interviewer, knew he would be sympathetic but also insist on hearing the whole story. Harry wanted to tell it now. Jeff was horrified of course.

“Just book me, Jeff. This guy Caden did me a favor, really. I’ve been hiding who I am for years, following your advice, following Modest’s advice, being a good boy, and look where it’s got me. I’m coming out, too. As bisexual. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

To his credit, Jeff didn’t. He called Harry back a few days later to say that he was booked some two weeks hence, that he’d need to get to London at least a day ahead to meet with Alan, run through the interview questions, get himself prepped.

“Would you think about going with me, Z? Like, maybe not together, but come to mine and be there when I get done? I can’t see anybody in London until this is over. Also. I’m going to come out as bi. I won’t mention us or anyone in particular--”

“Let me think about that, babe. I dunno what any of this means for me right now. I love you, but that’s kind of all I know. I’m pretty fucked up. These last days have been about you--stop, it’s right that they’ve been--but I basically stay in my apartment and get high. I hardly go out, and when I do I have to be high as fuck. So I’ve got some shit to deal with. You’re inspiring me, like. I need to see a therapist, maybe go public with my mental health issues more, maybe quit using substances altogether.”

In the end, Zayn didn’t go to London, and Harry had to admit that Zayn wasn’t going to punish him until his guilt dissolved, wasn’t the answer to the years in the spotlight and the way they had colluded with his own desire not to grow up. He had been known for his good manners and his interest in other people, and somehow the world had thought that meant he was wonderful. Just being a decent human. The standards for celebrities were so low.

* * *

 

The interview had gone as well as he could have hoped, though.

He started with what was hardest to say, as soon as Alan had rolled his eyes and said, “Well, Harry, it’s lovely to see you again, and I’m sure we both need a drink. What can I offer? Straight vodka, perhaps?”

“No, alcohol played a big role in this mess, so maybe I better stick with water. Thanks ever so much.”

“Ah, but Harry, you’ll spill so much more tea if you have a drink! No? Ok, too bad. Water it is. So, you’ve told me you have a few things to say. We’re listening.”

Harry had to force the words out. He had rehearsed this with Zayn; he’d told his mum and Gemma. He even called Louis to warn him of a probable uptick in Larry comments on social media. He took a deep breath and began.

“So, I think the first thing that I need to say is something that is hard for me to talk about. I’m a private person, and I don’t really think my private life is anyone’s business. But, you know, I also know that the photos that surfaced of me have created a lot of speculation about the, ah, situation and what it means and if I was drugged or kidnapped or abused in some other way….” Yep, he was avoiding saying it.

“I’m bisexual. This has been something that I had to learn about myself over time, but I’m sure it’s true now. What you saw in the pictures was an experiment that went kind of tits up, to be honest.”

Alan’s eyes showed a combination of sympathy and curiosity. “So now, Harry, no offense, but I don’t think your bisexuality is really a surprise to anyone, is it? I mean, I’ve always assumed that you were...flexible.” The audience laughed at the double entendre, and Harry grimaced involuntarily.

“I’ve never made a secret of my support for the LGBTQA community, nor that I didn’t feel the need to identify myself by a label, but I’ve had relationships with both men and women. What you saw on Instagram was the result of too much drinking, which I rarely do because it quite goes to my head, and a partner who was pretty kinky. I agreed to it, but I think it’s fair to say I got more than I bargained for, both in the moment and the next day when I woke up badly bruised and alone, only to discover that my partner had seen fit to share what he did to me with the world.”

“Men are such brutes,” Alan tsked. “Harry, I have to ask, and then we can talk about anything you like, you’ve been very generous offering us twenty minutes when I know this is hard for you, but was this your first time in that scene?”

Even though Harry had known this was coming, he still stiffened. He didn’t even mind being laughed at or scorned so much as he loathed the idea of any kind of sexual reputation. He’d managed to avoid it for so long.

“I wouldn’t call it a _scene_ , because I didn’t meet this person in a club or a dungeon, and I know that’s stupid but I don’t know what you call those clubs because honestly it’s never been my scene. I mean, I was camping. I met this person who was also camping, and we spent a fair amount of time together, which included drinking a lot of wine, and then….” Harry shrugged, as if to say, life, what is it, and waited for Alan to rescue him as he’d promised to do.

“So, you were intoxicated, and this person said, hey, I’d like to beat your ass, and you said yes, because why not, life is short and you should try everything once?”

“Basically, yeah. I don’t make great decisions when I drink, as I’ve said, and I’d never done anything like that, so I didn’t know if I’d like it. I also want to say, Alan, that I respect the BDSM community and believe that consensual activity between two adults is perfectly fine. I’m just not sure that I can be said to have consented, at least not in the strictest sense. It’s put me off exploring my kinks, I can tell you.”

“Of course it has, Harry. I could tell you some stories meself, but we just have to chalk them all up to experience. I assume you don’t have any permanent injuries, love?”

“Just to my pride, Alan.” As expected, the audience laughed sympathetically, and then Alan took the conversation to other, safer topics, adding only, “Harry, dear, you have just made a whole generation of gay men very, very happy.” Harry let his dimples show, stopped twisting his fingers and relaxed a bit. He told himself the worst was over, even though it really wasn’t.

He called Zayn after the interview, and Zayn answered. He cried a lot. He remembered the way Zayn had always gone so quietly attentive when Harry got emotional, and he remembered to be grateful and to say so. The bond he felt for Zayn sent out a few tendrils of new growth, but he stayed in England for a few weeks, took his mum and Gemma on holiday at a place in Scotland he had bought several years back quite privately, and saw Nick, who was, predictably, wryly supportive of his current plight.

“Well, popstar, you stepped in it, didn’t you? And fuck ‘em. I was right proud of you. You might turn out ok after all.” 

They had laughed, but Harry had felt a pang of regret for his old life, fake as it might have been. He had hidden in the shadows, and now he couldn’t escape the bright lights, not just paps but actual journalists. Everybody wanted to hear about Harry, the bisexual masochist. No ghosting this time.

Even with Brexit looming and the news from the US full of daily scandals, Harry Styles coming out as bisexual was news. He knew that he had made a statement, though, and Zayn said that as soon as he could reasonably get to New York safely he should come.

 

It took too long. Harry reminded himself again and again that it was all his poor decisions that had led to this particular juncture in his life, that he was lucky everyone important in his life was still speaking to him and being supportive, that he had had an overwhelming outpouring of support on social media. It turned out that people didn’t like the idea of someone taking advantage of Harry Styles, and if it made him feel a little like his younger self being fussed over by the bakery ladies, he tried to be grateful that he wasn’t some macho action star but rather a young and rather androgynous pop star.

* * *

 

Harry found himself trembling when he put in the code for Zayn’s building and then knocking timidly when he reached the door of the penthouse. He still wanted approval, from Zayn most of all.

The heavy door swung inward, and Harry saw Zayn for the first time in over a month. He had let his hair continue to grow, and it shone in the light from behind him. He was so gorgeous that it surprised Harry every time he saw him again.

“Haz, babe. I’m so glad you’re here. Zayn wore only track pants, and Harry noticed gratefuly that Gigi’s eyes had been covered up on Zayn’s chest. At least if they finally fucked he wouldn’t have to have her staring at him disapprovingly.

He moved into Zayn’s arms, and without thinking too much about it shrugged out of his coat and then his jumper, then the white tee that had become a wardrobe staple, until he could press his own bare chest against Zayn’s.

“Z, can we go to bed? I know you’re celibate right now, and I don’t want to, like, hurt your sobriety or whatever, but I need you to fuck me so bad. Will you, please?”

Zayn smiled his softest smile and turned without speaking, leading Harry up the stairs and into the bedroom, stopping finally in the master bath. He turned the shower on behind them, then began to kiss Harry senseless.

They had never kissed much, in the old days--never could wait long enough, Harry supposed. It felt luxurious, to explore Zayn’s mouth and tongue, to stop when their breath turned to pants, to press soft lips onto Zayn’s nose and cheekbones and eyebrows and forehead, to allow himself to express love, to feel his own cock fill as he felt Zayn’s, and then to sign in frustration when Zayn checked the temperature of the shower, pulled the rest of their clothes off, and pulled Harry into the steaming water.

“I guess I smell pretty rank, huh.”

“I’ve always liked the way you smell, Haz, but this will wake us both up, and anyway I want to soap you up and wash your hair and generally look at you all I want.”

It was nice, Harry had to admit, to lean against the shower wall and let Zayn take care of him for a bit, then to push Zayn against the opposite wall and to soap him up thoroughly, to let Zayn push a soapy finger just inside the rim of his hole, and to take a long time to be sure that Zayn’s penis was clean, really really clean. By the time the water turned cold, they were both more like they had always been in the old days, wanting to devour _now_ and to hell with being gentle.

This worked, up until Harry was on his back in the sheets of Zayn’s bed, and Zayn had scissored him open and held himself over Harry, pushing just the tip of his cock at Harry’s entrance, with a questioning look in his eyes. 

“Is this ok, H? It’s the first time since….what happened, yeah?”

Harry forced his gaze up. “I want you to fuck me. I’m a little scared of it, but don’t stop if I cry, ok? It’s just me being emotional.”

They smiled at each other. Zayn sank slowly into Harry, and then Harry stopped thinking and turned this moment over to his body and his heart.

* * *

 

Harry knew instinctively that Zayn had been saying a goodbye with their sex last night. As usual, he was up early, making coffee for himself and thinking about what he might find to make a breakfast of, and he thought with a pang that he might never have a morning like this again, rummaging in Zayn’s refrigerator, shaking his head at what Zayn considered a well stocked larder, getting creative with cooking with few ingredients, waiting for his lover to wake.

He wouldn’t argue. Zayn had taught him everything he knew about being quiet and patient, and he knew that this was the love of his life, that Zayn was his soulmate whatever happened. 

If Zayn told him to do it, he would go, and he would go into therapy and get better at understanding his need for both approval and punishment, and he would love other people, even if it could never be entirely fair to anyone else. He imagined himself having to say with each affair that his heart wasn’t wholly his to give and how little of that anyone would believe; yet he couldn’t realistically ask of himself to go without relationships when Zayn turned him away. As usual, he was right fucked where Zayn Malik was concerned.

He sat for a long while with coffee at Zayn’s kitchen table, letting the sun gradually warm his bare shoulders through the open window. Zayn should sleep until he woke. That was the least Harry could do.

It was almost noon when Harry heard Zayn’s bare feet shuffling across the open living space and into the kitchen. He felt warm fingers massage into his scalp and Zayn’s morning scruff rub against his forehead. “Morning, babe. Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Yeah, you know me. Thanks for letting me sleep in.”

“I liked it, being here, knowing you were upstairs sleeping and safe, and that I would get to see you soon.” In spite of himself, he had to add, “You know I would do this every day if you let me.”

He felt Zayn’s chest move as he sighed against the back of Harry’s head.

“You don’t have to say it, Z. I know. We’re a mess. We’ve always been a mess. You have to learn to leave your apartment. I have to understand why I want to please everybody, even if they aren’t good to me. We shouldn’t be together. Doesn’t stop me wanting it, though.”

Zayn squeezed his shoulders before moving to the chair nearest him. “No,” he said quietly, “It doesn’t stop me wanting it either.”

“I don’t need to talk about this, Z. I knew last night was saying goodbye. I can’t think about it too much right now, but I’m going to shower and change and call a car. I’ll go to my place until I can get back to LA privately. I need you to know something, though. One time Nick said you were a lovely person, but were you my lovely person.” Harry fixed Zayn with his clearest gaze. “I know the answer now. You are. I will always love you. I will always want to be with you, no matter who either of us loves in the future.”

“Harry. You’re being dramatic again. We just have work to do individually. You’ve already started, but I’m still hiding in this apartment, terrified of the world. I’ve made an appointment to see a therapist. She’s going to come here at first, specializes in people like me, apparently.”

“Oh, babe, that’s so good, I’m so proud of you.” Harry made himself stop with only that.

“I hope that there’s a future for us, Haz. We’ll know if and when it’s right. I love you too, more than anyone ever. I only know what love is because I learned from you about how to really see someone, to look past the defenses and the postures and see the soul inside. Yours is so bright. I can’t wait to see what you do next.”

That seemed like enough to say right now, Harry thought. He got up from the table, kissed Zayn on the top of his head, allowed himself one quick card through his lustrous hair, and walked away before he fell at Zayn’s feet, begging to be allowed to stay. 

 

**Five Years Later**

Harry had just finished his third world tour, and he was exhausted. It was so good to get back to LA, to go into his own home, the home he had learned to love living in alone, and to sleep for hours and hours. When he woke finally, it was dark in his bedroom, the only light from the streetlight on the road below and from his phone, glowing with messages on his bedside table. Against his better judgment, he picked it up. There it was, a headline on Apple News on his lockscreen: Former One Direction Heartthrob Announces: I’m Gay.

Harry smiled to himself. The last time they had spoken, Zayn had said he was almost ready to come out. He had toured, a limited 20 dates, but still. He was so much better, and so was Harry. He thought back to what Zayn had said about knowing when the time was right, and he unlocked his phone to call with congratulations and hope fur the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a ride for me, full of Zarry feels and love for the real people that inspire so many of us to write. I hope that wherever they are and however they are with each other that they are both happy and well. Thanks for sticking with this. I'm deeply aware of my flaws as a fiction writer, but the only way to get better is by writing.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I've stopped believing in a happy ending for the real people on whom these characters are based, but fanfic allows us to make them do as we want. I'm expecting this to be a little slower burn than has been usual for me so far, but hopefully there will be a payoff as I learn more about plotting stories. *newbie* 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are the gifts that keep on giving, including helpful critiques.


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